Waking Up
by ForceForGood
Summary: When Steve Rogers wakes up after spending 66 years buried in ice, he believes he has lost everything — his friends, his purpose as a soldier and even his peace of mind. Can he find his place in the modern world? Fills in gap between "CA: The First Avenger" and "Avengers" and beyond. Ch. 28: Steve visits an elderly Peggy for the first time as Hawkeye prepares to hijack a helicarrier
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Waking Up

**Rating: **K+ (mild language, no sexual content, a few fight scenes)

**Background:** I set out to write a single scene depicting how Steve Rogers was revived from the ice, thinking I'd dramatize that brief shot we see in "Avengers" where he is encased in ice and someone realizes he's still alive, as well as have some fun with Coulson's awkward "I watched you while you were sleeping" comment. Well, that single scene became Chapter 2 of a 20-chapter-plus saga that now stretches from Steve Rogers' awakening in the modern day all the way past "The Avengers" - and I may not be done yet. :-D

For those of you who are reading my story "The Third Life of Steve Rogers" depicting Steve's life with Peggy after he returns to 1945 at the end of "Avengers: Endgame," this story basically fits with that one like a puzzle piece. Feel free to enjoy either story, or both!

**Description:** When Steve Rogers wakes up after spending 66 years buried in ice, he believes he has lost everything - his friends, his purpose as a soldier and even his peace of mind. Can he overcome his symptoms of PTSD and make connections with new friends as he battles to find his place in a strange time? Fills in the gap between "Captain America: The First Avenger" and "The Avengers" and imagines missing scenes from "The Avengers." Steve POV with Nick Fury, Phil Coulson, Maria Hill and Sharon Carter, and eventually all the OG Avengers.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Steve Rogers groaned as he slowly came back to consciousness.

The first thing he became aware of was that it was bitterly cold. He opened his eyes and saw nothing at all; it was pitch black. Steve stretched out his hands and felt only empty space above him. Then he put his hands down and felt the surface he was lying on. It was hard, and covered with raised lines at regular intervals. He slid his gloved hand along one of the lines, and just as he found a break in the line, he heard and felt the crunch of broken glass.

In that moment, he realized where he was. He was lying on the panes of windows that spanned the front of the _Valkyrie_, just in front of the pilot's chair where he'd been sitting when he forced the plane down. He must have been thrown over the controls and onto the windows, which had stretched from the roof of the plane down to the deck. His gloved hands scrabbled among the broken glass, and he came up with handfuls of snow. His heart nearly stopped. Had he missed the water? It had been his intention to bury Johann Schmidt's bomber plane as deep in the ocean as he could, so that if its remaining bomb went off in the uncontrolled landing, no one would be harmed. More importantly, if it didn't go off, no one would be able to recover the weapon from the wreckage. With the strange and powerful technology Hydra had been developing, even a single missile could level an entire city and maybe beyond. It was better to let it sit at the bottom of the ocean than tempt anyone, even the Allies, into using it.

Steve slowly sat up, wincing from the stiffness in his joints. He was sure of it now; there was no water at all coming in through the broken windows underneath him. He _had_ missed the water. The plane was mostly level, too; it must have skidded to a stop on the surface of a snow field, throwing up waves of snow until all the windows were covered. Steve tried to comfort himself that it would still be difficult, if not impossible, for Hydra to recover the plane here in the desolation of the Arctic. The weapon had obviously not gone off, or he wouldn't still be in one piece, but it was as good as lost.

He hadn't expected to survive that landing.

Shivering, Steve pushed away his questions for another time. The question was, what to do now?

Leaving the plane would be certain death. He knew that. There was nothing out here, nowhere to walk to reach warmth or safety. Even here in the plane, sheltered from the wind, it was frigid. The serum that had transformed him didn't make him indestructible, and if he exposed himself to the elements it would only be a matter of time before he froze to death. Already he was beginning to lose feeling in his extremities.

Gingerly, he got to his feet. He stretched out his hands into the darkness again and was able to find the controls by touch. His gloved hands roamed over the dials and switches until he found the radio. He toggled it on and off and fiddled with the dial. Silence. The radio was broken. He wasn't sure if he should be glad about that or not. He hadn't counted on being rescued, and it was better that the weapon remain lost. But a little ache rose up in his throat anyway, because of Peggy. He had been prepared for his death - every soldier had to be - but she had not been.

An icy tingle moved down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He had never told Peggy that he loved her. She had to know - she had to - how could she not? He had a feeling it was all too obvious. And she had kissed him, there at the last. She had to have known that he was only waiting for the end of the war. Waiting until he had fulfilled his duty before he was free to turn to thoughts of his own happiness. For the first time, he questioned the rightness of that approach. Why hadn't it occurred to him that there might not _be_ a future?

And now here he was, a man out of time. Only a few more hours, and that was it. He was going to die on this plane. Steve took in a deep breath of cold air and slowly let it out again, accepting the fact.

There was a deep rumble under his feet, and suddenly the deck dropped out from under him, making his stomach swoop sickeningly. It stopped just as suddenly a few seconds later, and Steve had to grab a bulkhead to steady himself as the plane came to rest at a crazy tilt toward the port side. He held still for a long moment, but the plane didn't move again.

Maybe the ground underneath the plane wasn't as stable as he thought. He might just be on a thick sheet of ice over the water. Or maybe he really was on a snowfield, covered in many feet of snow. Either way, he suspected the hull of the plane, superheated from its burning engines and the rapid descent through the atmosphere, was melting whatever was beneath.

Even if he was on solid ground, there was a very real chance the plane was going to sink down deep into the snow. After that, even a little snowfall would blanket the top of the plane and hide it. Like a drift of snow over a tomb: cold, silent and solitary.

He sat down on the pilot's chair, shivering, and waited for the end.

His thoughts wandered far and wide. Thinking of his mother, and all the times she had nursed him through one illness after another with perfect steadfastness and love. His childhood, too: playing stickball in the streets with the other children. Falling asleep in his bed looking at the photograph of the father he'd never met, looking so tall and broad-shouldered in his Army uniform from the Great War. His school days, and the long, tedious workdays that came afterward, standing alongside other grim-faced factory workers working until dusk. The satisfaction of getting the pay he'd earned at the end of the week, even though it was meager. He remembered, too, Bucky making him ride the Cyclone on Coney Island, and laughing when he threw up. Bucky giving him money, and refusing to let him pay it back. Bucky and the countless times he had sailed into a fight with both fists to save Steve from yet another bully he hadn't had the sense to run away from. His mother's funeral, and the loneliness that followed. The gratification he'd felt when he finally saved up enough to buy himself one precious year of schooling at Auburndale. The peace he'd felt as he sketched in the studio or alone in his bedroom, focusing on lines and shapes until everything else seemed to fade into nothingness.

While he thought, the minutes and hours slipped past in an unending succession. His violent shivering was beginning to ease, and the tight knot in his middle began to relax. The plane rocked gently beneath him, gradually settling down deeper and deeper into the snow, and Steve tipped his head back and stared up into the blackness, briefly wishing that the brilliant stars he had seen Schmidt's cube project onto the curved roof of the Valkyrie would come back. It had been beautiful.

He thought, too, of the war. They had just taken down Hydra's last base. Schmidt was dead and Zola was captured. There would be no more Hydra weapons. Maybe the tide would finally turn. Maybe it would be just a few more months to tie up the loose ends, and they would be able to extract a surrender from the Axis. Then the boys could go home. He liked that thought and he lingered on it, imagining Jaques and Dum Dum and all the other Howling Commandos returning to their parents and their siblings and the pretty girls waiting for them, going back to school or to work, all the ordinary things that should have made up their lives if not for this great and bloody struggle that had torn them from their homes for unending years.

There was a jarring thump, and a sudden bloom of pain managed to penetrate his cold-numbed body. Steve realized he had dozed off and fallen off the chair. He lay there on his back, too weary to try to get back up. The cold from the deck seeped deeper and deeper into his bones. He was getting sleepy again. No reason to fight it. Slowly his eyes fluttered closed.

In his mind's eye, he could see Peggy pulling him down for that kiss, and he felt the warmth of her lips against his. Steve let out a long, slow breath, and didn't take in another one.

His heart gave one last throb, and went still.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"I can't believe we finally found him."

Phil Coulson wasn't bothering to hide the uncharacteristic excitement in his voice as he zipped up a parka over his suit and looked at Nick Fury with an eager gleam in his eyes.

"We've been looking so long, even _I_ was starting to think you were crazy, Fury," Coulson continued, reaching back to pull the fur-lined hood over his head. "How does it feel to be vindicated?"

"Try to contain yourself, Agent Coulson," Fury said unsmilingly, donning his gloves. "We don't know yet what condition the body's in."

Coulson paused with his left glove halfway on. "I'm sorry we didn't find what you were hoping for, Fury," he said more quietly.

Unfortunately, there hadn't been anything on the _Valkyrie_ they hadn't already found on the Hydra parasit fighter they'd located on a glacier in the area many months earlier. They now had a second copy of the ultra-destructive weapon Hydra had intended to use on the United States, it was true, but there were no additional weapon prototypes. No secret notes from Arnim Zola's research on the Tesseract. Nothing that would help them refine or accelerate Phase 2. The World Council would not be happy about the amount of resources S.H.I.E.L.D. had poured into the project, with little to show for it.

But a year ago, Fury had put his foot down and insisted on resuming the search for the _Valkyrie_ that Howard Stark had been forced to abandon so long ago, and Coulson knew there was no stopping the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. once he had made up his mind about something. Just look at the Avengers Initiative. Fury's obsession with it hadn't been cooled by Tony Stark's lack of cooperation, or the total radio silence from Asgard after Thor's abrupt departure, or Bruce Banner's refusal to even show his face to the world. Technically the Initiative was shut down, on the Council's orders, but Coulson knew even that didn't mean much to Fury.

"Well, maybe we can get a blood sample from the body," Fury said, zipping up his parka. "As a consolation prize."

"You aren't thinking of resuming the super-soldier serum research, are you, sir?" Coulson asked, startled.

Fury didn't immediately answer.

"I mean, the last couple attempts were pretty spectacular failures," Coulson pressed, starting to get a little worried. "I'm not sure we need any more Abominations rampaging through Harlem."

"I didn't have any intentions," Fury admitted, "but we should get what we can while we've got the chance. We might make better headway with a blood sample from the original. The world's only stable super-soldier."

"The Strategic Scientific Reserve had that," Coulson said, "and they never got anywhere with it."

"We have considerably better minds to throw at the problem now," Fury said. "Better equipment, better knowledge base." He pulled up the hood over his bald head. "Whatever the cost, we have to be ready for _them_."

They were both quiet for a moment, remembering the Kree and the Skrull, and all the implications that came along with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s discovery 20 years ago of the existence of other life in the universe. Their more recent encounter with the Destroyer in New Mexico hadn't exactly been a comfort, either. On this, the two of them were both in agreement: whenever the next extraterrestrial visit occurred - and they were certain it _would_ \- they needed to be ready.

There was no sign of Dr. Lewis and his forensics team yet, but the two of them were beginning to swelter in their thermals. Moving decisively, Fury pulled on the lever to open the thickly insulated door of the morgue, and a blast of cold air hit their faces. Fury stepped up into the frigid room, followed closely by Coulson.

The room was dimly lit and icy cold. Their breath showed in white puffs as Coulson shut the door with a thud and they quietly moved to either side of the exam table, looking at what had been delivered from Greenland to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Manhattan Headquarters less than an hour ago.

The body was lying there, still partially encased in ice. The head and torso were mostly exposed, though, and although the skin was bluish and frosty, there was no mistaking it: It was Steve Rogers.

He was wearing his uniform. _The_ uniform. The helmet was missing, but the white star in the center of the chest shone out clearly in the dim light. Fury ran an appraising eye over the body and then picked up the file at the foot of the exam table.

Moving slowly, as if in a dream, Coulson stretched out a gloved hand and rested it lightly on the star.

"Coulson, remove your hands from the remains," Fury said sternly.

"This is Captain America," Coulson said, breathless from either the cold or the awe, Fury wasn't sure. "The world's first superhero. I used to read his comic books as a kid. My dad bought me the whole set."

"You've mentioned it," Fury said, flipping through the file.

"I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. because of him," Coulson said, his hand still on the star. "I wanted to be like one of the Howling Commandoes, following him into battle." He blinked a couple of times and then slowly removed his hand from the star. "Metaphorically, I mean," he said quickly in a more normal tone of voice, having the decency to look slightly embarrassed. He looked over the body again, and shook his head, blowing out a long breath that left a white cloud hovering in the air. "What a waste."

"I wouldn't exactly call saving the entire eastern seaboard a waste," Fury said, not looking up from the papers.

"Just think what he could have done if he hadn't gone down in that plane," Coulson said. "What he could have done for this country. For the world."

"He could still do it," Fury said, putting down the file with a slap, "if he'll oblige us with some blood samples." He stepped closer to the body, studying it. "Looks like he's in pretty good shape."

Coulson didn't seem to have heard. "He could be sleeping," he said reverently.

The insulated door opened again with a sharp cracking sound, and the forensics expert, Dr. Lewis, came in, followed by two assistants pushing in a wheeled cart filled with examination instruments. All three of them wore clean white coats over their parkas.

"Director Fury, Agent Coulson," Lewis said, nodding to them. He and his team moved to surround the exam table, pulling on their medical gloves, and Fury and Coulson backed up out of their way. "Well, let's take a look."

Lewis switched on the blue light on the exam table's surface, illuminating the body more fully, and carefully looked it all over. Finally, he nodded in satisfaction.

"It looks like he's in pristine condition," Lewis said. "No sign of putrefaction, no evidence of animal feeding. We couldn't ask for better." He glanced at the thermometer above the exam table. "Make sure we keep that outer door shut tight while we're working. The moment he warms up, decay will set in." He gestured to his team. "Let's get the rest of this ice off, for starters. Be careful not to damage the skin."

There was a bustle of activity as the assistants moved to obey.

"Are you going to be able to get blood samples?" Fury asked, barely concealing his impatience with the whole process.

"Most likely," Lewis said, using a small thermal wand to begin melting the chunk of ice encasing the left hand and squinting at the results.

"And full body scans?" Fury pressed. "I'd like to see exactly how the serum affected _all_ his systems."

"Well, we can scan him," Lewis said, "but I should warn you about the problem with frozen bodies. You see, the human body is full of water, and when it freezes, ice crystals form and rip through all the soft tissue. This guy's internal organs are going to be just shredded." He took one glance at Fury's irritated expression and hurried to add: "His bones should be okay, though. We could probably even get marrow samples."

"He isn't 'this guy,'" Coulson suddenly interjected. "This is _Captain America_."

"Can we get the blood sample now?" Fury asked, ignoring Coulson.

"We haven't even gotten the ice off..." Lewis trailed off, looking annoyed, but after a moment he sighed and then shrugged. "I don't see why not. Garcia, why don't you cut off the sleeve on the right arm, since that one's clear, and put a needle in the cubital vein."

"Don't cut the uniform!" Coulson objected with feeling. "This is Captain America! That's a _historical artifact_."

Lewis rolled his eyes. "Fine, then. Use the jugular." He put his hands on Garcia's shoulders and guided her toward the head of the table. "Use the big needle," he told her. "Since the blood's frozen, you're going to take a core sample, like you would a sample of ice." The other assistant stood ready with an empty vial.

Lewis watched closely as Garcia began to insert the needle. "That's it," he murmured. "Straight in, straight out." Garcia slowly withdrew the needle from the neck, and handed the syringe to the other assistant, a man whose name tag read "Bell," who carefully lowered the needle down into a vial and depressed the plunger to expel the sample.

"Dr. Lewis?" Garcia said, sounding startled and drawing everyone's attention back to her. "Um... he's _bleeding_!"

Everyone stopped what they were doing and craned to look. There was, in fact, a slow trickle of thick blood rolling down the neck from the needle prick.

"The sample's liquid, too," Bell pointed out, swirling it around in the vial with a look of surprise.

Lewis swore. "The temperature!" he said. "Is it above freezing?" He frantically started to look all around the morgue, hunting for instrumentation. "If he gets too warm..."

They found several different readings. All said it was below freezing.

"How is that possible?" Coulson asked, squinting at the slow drip of blood down the neck.

Lewis was starting to relax again. "Actually, blood normally freezes at around 31 degrees. But it depends on the composition. You can lower the freezing point with salt or sugar, for example. Bell, stick that sample in the reader and let's see what it says."

The five of them waited for the blood analysis, and finally Bell reported: "Glucose levels are extremely high. As in, diabetic-coma high."

"Captain America was not a diabetic," Coulson said indignantly.

"He wouldn't have to be," Lewis said. "Blood sugar tends to spike under extreme stress. Crashing a plane into the Arctic would do the trick." He looked over the body again thoughtfully. "Actually, this might be a good thing. Maybe his internal organs won't be shredded by ice after all. I've heard of this happening with some kind of frog, I think. They hibernate in the mud over the winter, and even if they get frozen, they can thaw out in the spring and recover."

"Captain America is _not_ a fr-" Coulson started.

"Coulson, park your posterior over by the door," Fury snapped. "And if I hear the phrase 'Captain America' escape your lips one more time, you'll have to remove yourself from the situation."

"Sorry, boss," Coulson muttered, backing up meekly.

"What about his brain?" Fury asked. "Is that going to be intact?"

Lewis waggled his head noncommittally. "Maybe. We'd have to do some scans and see." He walked over to the head of the table. "I might be able to give you some indication by seeing what condition his eyes are in."

Lewis leaned over and carefully pried open an eyelid with this thumb, and bent down close to peer into the eye. "Huh. It doesn't look too bad..." He glanced over at Garcia with hand outstretched. "Hand me a penlight, would you?"

The assistant handed him the light, and he got down even closer, shining the beam directly into the eye. "This is great. I'm not seeing any ice damage at all. Maybe-"

Lewis froze, breaking off mid-sentence. Suddenly he reared back, dropping the penlight on the floor with a clatter, eyes wide with shock.

"Oh my God!" he blurted out, his voice ringing over-loud in the enclosed space. "This guy's still alive!"

"_What_?" Coulson said. The two assistants stood stock-still.

Fury fixed Lewis with an icy stare. "Excuse me?" he said sternly.

The forensic scientist was standing several steps back from the body, breathing rapidly. "Did you see that? His pupil dilated!"

"So?" Fury said.

"So pupils don't dilate unless there's brain activity."

"This solider has been frozen in the Arctic for 66 years," Fury said pointedly. "Trust me, there's no brain activity."

"Look for yourself," Lewis said vehemently, scooping up the penlight from the floor. He pulled back the eyelid again, and he and Fury bent down low to look. Coulson butted in too, and the three of them hardly dared breathe as they stood there, heads touching, looking at the eye as Lewis shone the light into it.

The pupil visibly shrank.

"See?" Lewis said.

"That's _weird_," Coulson breathed, straightening up.

Fury straightened up too, and scowled at the scientist. "What's all this business about _he's still alive_? Is the man breathing? Is his heart beating? I didn't think so."

"It doesn't matter," Lewis said flatly. "We don't call time of death when a heart stops beating. We call it for brain death. His pupils dilated, ergo, his brain is not dead."

"You don't think you can restart his heart, do you?" Coulson asked, startled.

Lewis put his hands up in a quick gesture of negation. "I'm not saying anything. I'm not a physician. I'm just saying... I think I'd like to see a brain scan before I start cutting into him. This is... not normal. I've never heard of anything like this."

"We don't know much about Dr. Erskine's formula, other than it changed him at a cellular level," Coulson said slowly. "Isn't it possible that some portion of his bodily functions remained active? I mean, bodies twitch even after they're dead..."

"You don't need a living brain for a twitch or two," Lewis said. "This is something else. This is-"

"Look at his neck!" Garcia interrupted.

They did. The slow flow of blood caused by the hypodermic needle had stopped, leaving a congealed lump where the wound was.

"His blood is clotting," Garcia said, looking up at them all incredulously. "He's... _healing_."

Coulson looked over at Fury, a sudden panic rising. "What do we do, boss?"

Fury was looking down at the body with a calculated look in his eye. "Maybe we can salvage more than just a blood sample out of this."

Lewis stripped his gloves off with an air of finality. "Call in a medical team," he said. "This guy's a patient, not a corpse."

* * *

Coulson tried not to show his impatience. He had expected Dr. Kathleen Stacey, summoned from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical ward, to rush Captain Rogers to the emergency bay and for her medical personnel to swarm around him like a cloud of locusts, pumping him full of medications in a desperate attempt to resuscitate him. But to Coulson's surprise, once they had explained the situation to Dr. Stacey, she had calmly and quietly recited a list of what she needed, and now they were moving Rogers to a medical theater at a leisurely pace.

Coulson followed behind the gurney with Fury by his side, and tried to reassure himself that if Captain America really had survived 66 years in a deep freeze, a few minutes more or less could hardly make a difference. When they arrived, the two of them were sent up to the observation deck and the medical teams below got to work. First they carefully undressed their patient and lowered him into a medical-grade tub of tepid water. "We'll want to warm him up gradually," Dr. Stacey had explained. "Slow and steady wins the race."

"How do you know? It's not like you've done this before," Coulson had pointed out.

"Standard procedure for treating hypothermia," Dr. Stacey said calmly.

And so they were raising the temperature of the water, one slow degree at a time, and the medical team moved around him in a gentle, unhurried way as they performed their tasks. Coulson saw one nurse administering a few blood tests and another attaching sensors to the patient's temples, and eventually Dr. Stacey gave him a single injection in the arm, although Coulson couldn't tell from here what it was. He could see the body temp monitor, though, and it was slowly but surely ticking upward.

"Call me when we know something," Fury said, and abruptly left the observation deck. Coulson couldn't believe he would leave at a time like this, but he also knew the hospital just wasn't Fury's scene. Some people were funny that way.

Finally, after an interminable wait, something different happened. Someone brought in a sturdy platform and set it up by the medical tub. Dr. Stacey climbed up on it, knelt down and leaned over the patient, putting her hands one atop the other on his chest. She gave him several firm chest compressions and looked up at the monitors to see what was happening. As far as Coulson could tell, not much.

She did compressions again, for a longer period of time, continually checking on the monitors. But whenever she paused, the monitor flatlined again. With almost superhuman patience, Dr. Stacey kept going, gently trying to coax her patient back to life.

But eventually she began to tire, and a nurse climbed onto the platform and took her place administering the chest compressions. Dr. Stacey went around to head of the tub. Several of the nurses were standing back in the corner, talking amongst themselves while they waited to be told what to do, their voices echoing around the surgical bay.

"Let's keep it quiet in here," Dr. Stacey said briefly, and the nurses immediately quieted. Coulson wondered why, until he remembered that he'd heard comatose patients could sometimes hear and remember what was said in their presence.

Stacey leaned over the tub and looked at her patient's slack face.

"Captain Rogers?" she said.

He didn't move or respond in any way. The nurse kept on with the chest compressions.

"Captain? I need you to help us out," Stacey said firmly. "Come on. Do your part."

Nothing happened.

Stacey called his name several more times. Tried telling him to report for duty, in her best imitation of a commanding officer. But when the nurse paused her compressions, the monitor flatlined again.

Dr. Stacey put one hand gently on her patient's forehead, smoothing back the wet strands of hair, and leaned down close to his ear.

"Captain Rogers? It's time to wake up now," she said firmly.

Coulson blinked suddenly. What was that green flash? A light from one of the medical monitors? But they were all blinking red or white lights now. Coulson rubbed his eyes with his palms, feeling the grit under his eyelids; he'd been standing here watching too long. He was exhausted, but he wasn't going anywhere until-

"Did you see that?" panted the nurse who was giving the chest compressions, her voice ringing out. Her eyes were fixed on the heart monitor. "There was a spike!"

Everyone in the surgical bay went instantly on alert.

"Don't stop!" Dr. Stacey said urgently, looking at the monitor wide-eyed, and then impulsively she climbed up onto the platform and took over the chest compressions herself with a renewed energy. The pulse line on the monitor was jagged and irregular, but it seemed to be doing more than it had been before, at least to Coulson's untrained eyes.

Suddenly, Rogers' whole body twitched, sending waves lapping all around the tub of water. His head rocked violently from side to side, mouth gaping open, and Coulson clearly saw him clench his hands into fists under the water.

The nurse standing by Dr. Stacey shot her a worried look. "Was that a convulsion, or-?"

"He's trying to breathe," Stacey said authoritatively. She glanced over at the other nurses. "Rub his limbs, give him tactile stimulation!" she called out. "Like you would a newborn." They rushed over to obey, lifting his feet and his arms out of the water, rubbing them vigorously.

"Come on, come on, come on," Coulson whispered, uncaring that Rogers couldn't hear him. "Come on..."

Long seconds passed. Suddenly Rogers thrashed in the water again, and half the nurses lost their grip on his limbs. Waves of water splashed over the edge of the tub. He arched his back, chest rising out of the water, and then he collapsed back down, sending more waves up and over. Dr. Stacey leaned back on her heels from where she knelt on the platform, halting the chest compressions, but the heart monitor continued to show a wild, jagged line. The nurses stood back a little, uncertain.

_He's fighting for it now, _Coulson thought.

Rogers tipped his head back with mouth wide open, struggled visibly, and then gasped loudly, sucking air in hard and then immediately going into a violent coughing fit. For long, agonizing seconds, he choked, gasped and coughed by turns while the medical team stood back and watched, eyes wide. Finally, he settled down into a recognizable breathing rhythm, in and out, although he was panting like he'd just run a marathon, his eyes still shut tight.

"Record the time!" Dr. Stacey said with a ring of triumph in her voice. "07:04, patient resuscitated!" Several of her nurses were unable to restrain their joyful exclamations. Coulson knew how they felt. He was giddy as a child. They'd just brought a dead man back to life, more or less. Rogers lay in the tub, his chest visibly rising and falling, eyes still closed. He was beginning to shiver, though, and his lips were blue.

"Turn up the heater," Dr. Stacey ordered, pointing at the controls on the tub. "Let's get him warmed up the rest of the way, stat."

Meanwhile, Coulson was dialing his phone as fast as he could with shaking fingers.

"Fury?" he said the moment he heard a voice on the other end. "They did it, sir."

* * *

"Give it to us straight, Doc," Fury said, strolling over to look at the patient. "Good news and bad."

Captain Rogers was no longer shivering. His skin looked pink and healthy, right down to his lips, and his face was totally relaxed, eyes closed, lashes fanned across his cheeks. His arms floated in the water, moving ever so slightly as the steaming water lapped around his body. A sheet had been draped midway across the tub, providing some modesty.

"You can see the good news for yourself," Stacey said, nodding toward her patient. "Pulse is steady and he's breathing independently. Blood fully oxygenated, body temp a nice toasty 99 degrees."

"We've also checked for signs of frostbite," she added, "and tested for grimace response and nerve induction. He passed them with flying colors. He'll still have the use of his limbs."

"What about his brain?" Fury asked.

"His brain activity's been gradually strengthening over the last 20 minutes," Stacey continued. "If the trend continues, I think he should be in good shape."

"So what's the bad news?" Fury asked.

Stacey raised an eyebrow. "Well, he's still unconscious... but that's only because I've sedated him. And his body is fighting the medication hard. I've given him several doses now, enough to put down an elephant, but his metabolism just burns through it like it's nothing. I don't know how much longer I can keep him under."

"Why sedate him at all?" Coulson asked. "We want to talk to him. The sooner the better."

Dr. Stacey shook her head. "I'm not the betting type," she said, "but even I'd be willing to bet he didn't expect to survive what he just survived. _We_ certainly didn't. He just lost 70 years of time. The world we're living in might as well be a foreign country, as far as he's concerned. It's going to come as a shock when he wakes up."

The three of them were quiet for a moment, thinking through the implications of that.

"Someone's going to have to explain this to him," Dr. Stacey said.

"I'll do it," Coulson said immediately.

"Coulson," Fury said wearily, rubbing his forehead, "the last thing the man needs to hear when he first wakes up is a request for an autograph."

"I wouldn't do that," Coulson said seriously. "I'd break it to him very gently. It can't be you, sir. Your presence isn't exactly soothing. No offense."

"I think we'd better leave this to a professional," Dr. Stacey said. "A psychiatrist, maybe one who specializes in care for veterans. We have several on site."

Fury nodded. "Choose whichever one looks-" He glanced at Coulson with a hint of tolerant amusement. "-s_oothing_."

Coulson was disappointed, but he tried not to show it. "He's going to know something's wrong the moment he opens his eyes," he pointed out instead, glancing around at all the medical monitors. "It doesn't exactly look like a 1940s hospital in here."

"We can rig up something that looks a little more familiar," Fury said. "Just until the psychiatrist can get him to understand." He drummed his fingers on his thigh. "And we'll need to take security precautions. If he takes the news badly, there's no telling what he might do."

"This is Captain America-" Coulson started, and then quickly shut his mouth, shooting an apologetic look at Fury.

"Captain America or not, we'll have trouble containing him if he wakes up mentally unbalanced," Fury said. "He's a super-soldier."

"What are you going to do, restrain him?" Coulson asked. "We can't hold him here, practically or legally. Technically, I'm not sure he even works for us. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't exist when he went under."

"We may not be able to restrain him, but I'm not letting him out of my sight," Fury said. "Call Price and tell her to start prepping a room for us to move Rogers into. Tell her to make it as accurate as she reasonably can, but make sure she understands she may not have much time, either. And have Fontes set up a security perimeter at least a couple of blocks out. I want men on the ground and eyes in the sky. Whatever happens, we can't lose track of him."

Coulson nodded, and left the room at a brisk pace, his phone already up to his ear.

"Let's get him out of this tub and cleaned up as quick as we can," Dr. Stacey told her head nurse. "See if you can come up with some period-appropriate clothing to put on him. There are probably plenty of photos online that we can use as a guide. Just keep a close eye on him and let me know if he looks like he's starting to come around."

The head nurse nodded, and the nurses bustled into activity around the patient. Fury led Dr. Stacey out of the room and out into the corridor, where it was quieter.

"How did this happen?" Fury asked Dr. Stacey. "How is he still alive? He hasn't even aged, as far as I can tell."

Dr. Stacey shook her head slowly. "We'll be unraveling this puzzle for a while, I think. Scientists have been theorizing about suspended animation for a long time, but we've always known it would involve very careful control of the environment: temperature, humidity, oxygen, and so forth. Maybe even IVs and feeding tubes. But this..." She shook her head again. "He was out in the wild, with environmental conditions constantly changing. The odds against his survival seem astronomical."

"Lewis said something about his glucose levels keeping his blood liquid and his organs intact," Fury said.

"Maybe that was part of it," Dr. Stacey said, "but there had to have been more to it than that. Usually when a person freezes, there are micro-ice crystals that form that puncture the body's cells. Muscle, skin, fat, everything. Obviously, that didn't happen. I suspect the super-soldier serum made him more resilient at a cellular level, but it doesn't really explain how his brain was kept alive. You need an oxygen source for that. He must have been buried under snow most of the time. He definitely wasn't breathing when you brought him to me. I can't explain that."

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Coulson said, rejoining them as he tucked his phone back into his suit pocket. When the other two looked at him questioningly, he added, "that's what my granddad always said, anyway." He looked through the observation window at Steve Rogers' sleeping form. "It doesn't really matter how he came back. It only matters that he did."

* * *

There was a voice far in the distance.

Steve couldn't identify it, but he was certain he'd heard it. Maybe someone _had_ seen the plane go down. Maybe they were here to look through the wreckage.

He wanted to call out, but everything felt foggy and he couldn't seem to fully wake up. All he saw was darkness, and it felt like someone was pinning him down, pressing on his chest with a heavy weight. He tried to get up anyway, but had no strength. Suddenly a spike of adrenaline shot through his veins as he realized there was seawater lapping around his body. The plane was leaking after all. He was going to drown.

Steve fought to rise, but he couldn't move. His limbs were too heavy. Worst of all, the water cocooning him felt warm, not cold. He knew it was a bad sign. He must have gone numb to the core. He couldn't let himself sleep again. The voice he'd heard - it meant rescue was nearby. He shouldn't have laid down; he had a duty to last as long as he could. With a terrible effort, he forced himself to try for a big, deep breath, hoping the cold air would invigorate him. But he couldn't seem to draw any air in. Was the water already over his face? In a sudden panic, he rocked his head from side to side, arching his back, straining and struggling with all his strength, until finally he was able to take in a good gulp of air.

It _hurt_. It burned his lungs like fire, but still he kept on taking big, labored gasps, pushing through the pain. His heart pounded like a drum, pulsing loudly in his ears, and his fists clenched in the water. For a time, he could focus on nothing but the air moving painfully in and out of his chest as violent shivers rocked his body.

An indeterminate length of time passed. The voice seemed closer now - in fact, there were now several voices - but the pain in his chest was beginning to ease and the water was so comfortably warm that despite his best intentions, he was growing sleepy again. He couldn't be complacent - after all, there was no guarantee that the Allies had been the ones to find him. It was just as likely that the scattered remnants of Schmidt's fanatics had some way to track the _Valkyrie_. It could be that his soon-to-be-rescuers were also his captors.

He knew he had to be ready for a fight, but a powerful wave of sleepiness crashed over him that he could not resist. His last thought as he drifted off again was that if Hydra found him, he'd just have to escape as soon as he woke up, because he was in no condition to do it now.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

Author's note: Please take a moment to leave a review and let me know what you think so far! I love getting feedback, it helps me know if I'm on the right track.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's note:** Thank you for taking the time to read! If you like this, you may like my story "The Third Life of Steve Rogers," which takes place after returns to 1945 and reunites with Peggy to live the life he lost. It fits with this story like a puzzle piece._

**Chapter 3**

Steve Rogers slowly opened his eyes.

He stared up at a ceiling fan, perplexed, with the faint chatter from a radio filling his ears. There was something he was supposed to be doing. Steve struggled to remember. He was supposed to meet someone, somewhere. Who or where, he couldn't quite remember, but he felt the urgency of it.

Cautiously, he sat up and swung his feet off the bed and onto the floor. He was fully dressed, right down to his shoes, but not in his uniform. Someone had brought him here, cared for him, changed his clothing. They'd found him on the plane and taken him to... a hospital room? He gazed around the room, noting the white and green walls, the neatly made bed, the white roses in a vase on the dresser. Everything was clean and pleasant, and more spacious than most hospitals he'd been in. He had the room to himself.

A car horn honked in the distance, and he turned to see a window by the bed, with a bar of sunshine streaming in. Through it he could see a tall brownstone building. He was in a city? Not some makeshift medical tent complex cobbled together amid the chaos of the front?

He must be in a hospital. But there was no odor of antiseptic hanging heavy in the air, and he couldn't hear the bustle of nurses and gurneys out in the hallway that he expected. Suddenly alert, he focused on the tabletop radio across the room from him. The announcer had just said something about the Dodgers. The Dodgers? With a start, Steve realized he must be back in America. He wondered at that, and looked down at his body. No bandages of any kind, and he felt fine, albeit a little stiff. Why would they bring him all the way home, when the fighting was overseas? He was obviously fit to go back to the front.

Something wasn't right. He wasn't sure what it was, but his instincts were jangling, warning him about something. And he remembered the thought he'd had before drifting back to sleep: that maybe the SSR wouldn't be the first to find him. He had to find out where he was, and fast.

The door opened. A young woman came in, a pretty one with dark wavy hair, dressed in a white button-up shirt and tie over an olive-green skirt. She looked at Steve and her whole face beamed when she saw he was awake. "Good morning," she said, and then glanced at her watch, "or should I say afternoon?"

Her voice was low and pleasant, and her accent was American. That was good as far as it went, though it was no guarantee. He'd met too many spies in the field to feel secure about a detail like that.

"Where am I?" he asked her.

"You're in a recovery room in New York City," she responded promptly.

The view outside the window and the baseball game being broadcast through the radio certainly seemed to bear that out, and yet...

"The Phillies have managed to tie up at 4-4," the radio announcer said. "But the Dodgers have three men on. Pearson beaned Reiser in Philadelphia last month. Wouldn't the youngster like a hit here to return the favor? Pete leans in. Here's the pitch. Swung on. A line to the right. And it gets past Rizzo! Three runs will score. Reiser heads to third. Durocher's going to wave him in. Here comes the relay, but they won't get him. The Dodgers take the lead, 8-4!"

A cold chill ran through Steve's body. Reiser wasn't playing for the Dodgers anymore. He'd joined the Army as soon as the war broke out.

Steve flicked his eyes back over to the girl suspiciously. "Where am I, really?"

The girl gave him a puzzled smile. "I'm afraid I don't understand," she said.

"The game," Steve said levelly. "It's from May, 1941. I know, 'cause I was there."

The girl said nothing, but her eyes widened ever so slightly and the smile faded from her lips. She'd been caught, and she knew it. Was she really the best Hydra could come up with? She was an even worse liar than he was.

Steve got to his feet. "I'm gonna ask you again," he said low, moving slowly toward her. "Where am I?"

"Captain Rogers-" she said, looking nervous.

"_Who are you?_" he demanded.

The door burst open again, and two men dressed in black combat gear rushed in. That put paid to any further attempts at conversation. Without hesitation, Steve grabbed them both by the shirt and threw them across the room. To his shock, they didn't crash up against the wall, though. They sailed right _through_, leaving a 6-foot-wide gaping hole in the side of the building. Steve stood stock still in surprise for a moment. The men should be plummeting to the ground far below, but through the hole he could clearly see both of them lying on a shiny black floor, surrounded by chunks of broken plaster. Beside him, the girl squeaked and backed away from him, but he didn't care about her. In two steps he had crossed the room and vaulted through the hole in the wall.

He was in another room, dark and spacious and mostly empty. At a glance he saw that the brownstone building outside his window was nothing more than a 15-foot-tall photograph. The "sun" was a spotlight. It was fake. The whole thing was fake. Like a movie set.

He ran. The men on the floor were too stunned to immediately follow. Steve heard the girl behind him shout: "Captain Rogers, wait!" He ignored her and burst through a pair of double doors.

The exit took him out into a wide corridor of glass and stone, filled with men in suits. They seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see them. Further down the hall, more men in black combat gear ran toward him through the crowd. Steve ran the other way, into a lobby, shoving aside a suited man who got in his way. Over the intercom he heard a coded alert, but it didn't matter. They couldn't stop him. In moments he was out of the building and into the street, running with all the speed he could muster between two lanes of traffic. The buildings on either side were a blur, but he caught a glimpse of an American flag in his peripheral vision. Was he really in America after all? Who _were_ those people back there?

It didn't matter. They definitely weren't friends of his. He ran like the wind, aided by the shoes they'd put on him. Only a block later he found himself in a wide plaza, filled with people... and then, without ever deciding to do so, he slowed to a halt, staring.

Where... was... he?

He was surrounded by movie screens. _Huge_ ones, several stories high, covering the sides of every building in sight. Lights and colors and words flashed at him from all directions. It was... was it? Times Square? He'd been here dozens of times, delighted by the giant neon billboards that lit up the New York nights. But these advertisements were moving pictures, just like in a theater, and the images were crystal clear and brightly colored, like nothing he'd ever seen before.

Steve slowly turned around in a circle, staring and staring. His mind couldn't wrap around what he was seeing. Yes, that building there was, without a doubt, One Times Square. And yet it didn't look exactly like it should, and many of the buildings surrounding it were totally unfamiliar. Even the people in the plaza were dressed strangely.

It must be another deception. It had to be. But to create something on this scale... _an entire section_ of New York City had been altered. How could they have completed so many new skyscrapers in the two years he'd been gone? They towered so high that their tops disappeared into the fog. And even the cars on the street were different. Several black cars were pulling up to a stop right by him; they were incredibly sleek and shiny. He'd never seen anything like them, not even at Howard Stark's world expo.

"At ease, soldier!"

Steve instinctively turned toward the authoritative voice that rang out over the din of traffic. A tall black man with an eyepatch strapped at a rakish angle across his bald head was standing several feet away, gazing at him levelly. He was dressed all in black. Behind him, more men in combat gear spilled out of the sleek black cars and began to push back the people who were crowding around, wondering what all the commotion was about.

Steve was so bewildered that for the moment, he didn't care about the fact that he was being surrounded. If he had to get out later, he could. Right now all he wanted was answers.

"Look, I'm sorry about that little show back there," the man said, coming closer, "but we didn't know what your mental state might be. We thought it best to break it to you slowly."

"Break what?" Steve demanded, controlling his agitation with an effort.

The man looked at him seriously. "You've been asleep, Cap. For almost 70 years."

Steve stared at the man for a long moment, and realized that against all reason, he believed him. He didn't know why, but he did. Maybe it was because of the evidence all around him: it all fit. Or maybe it was because of the man himself. Unlike the girl in the hospital room, there was nothing about him that was calculated to lull a man into a sense of security. He was big and imposing, dressed in a long black jacket with a gun strapped not-so-discretely to his thigh. He had an air about him that made Steve think he was the kind who could take a bullet or three and keep right on coming. He was not the kind to orchestrate something this bizarre for a sick joke.

Seventy years...

How was he still alive?

Steve felt the impossibility of it, and that was _all_ he seemed able to feel. Somewhere deep inside he understood that his whole world had just crashed in on him, that while he slept in the cold darkness of the _Valkyrie_ the world must have spun on without him, that everything and everyone he knew must be irrevocably gone... but his emotions seemed to be locked down deep inside his chest, and all he could do was gaze at them with a detached curiosity, the way he'd somehow been able to distance himself from the sight of the bloody, torn bodies strewn across the beaches of Normandy.

Only yesterday he had been talking to Peggy.

_A week next Saturday, at the Stork Club. Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late._

Realization dawned. That was what had been nagging at him since the moment he woke up in the dummy hospital room. It was Peggy he was supposed to meet with. He'd made a promise to her.

He had never shown up. He'd stood her up, the woman of his dreams. He had broken her heart.

He'd done it seventy years ago.

_Nothing would have stopped me,_ some part of him seemed to be pleading in the depths of his soul, as though Peggy could hear him somehow. _Nothing!_

How many lives had he saved, bringing down that plane? And had they been worth a price that dear? His shoulders heaved, from suppressed emotion more than from his desperate sprint through the streets._ Please, God, tell me they were._

"You gonna be okay?" the man asked, scrutinizing him with his one good eye.

"Yeah," Steve answered automatically. What other answer could there be? "Yeah. I just... I had a date."

More people were joining the crowd forming around the impromptu barrier the men in black suits had created around Steve with their cars, many of them pointing and staring, trying to figure out what was going on. The man put his hand on Steve's arm, guiding him toward one of the cars. "We should finish this conversation somewhere else," he said.

There was a part of him that wanted to resist, that wanted to run again, but then... where would he run? To whom?

"Who are you?" Steve asked, almost not caring anymore.

"Colonel Nick Fury, director of S.H.I.E.L.D.," the man with the eyepatch said. "You would have known us as the Strategic Scientific Reserve."

Numbly, he allowed himself to be ushered into the back of a car that was, in fact, emblazoned with a logo of an eagle reminiscent of the SSR logo. Fury got in beside him and they started driving back the way Steve had run.

The inside of the car looked like something straight out of a pulp fiction magazine, all glowing dials and displays, with a movie screen mounted right into the dashboard that showed a moving map of the streets. The men in the front seats glanced back at him curiously, and Steve forced himself to tear his eyes away from the instrumentation and stare out the window instead, working to accept the strangeness of what he was seeing. _I'm in the future_, he told himself, testing out the feel of the words. _This is real. This is happening. I'm in the future._

"What year is it?" he asked without turning to look at Fury.

"2011."

"Two _thousand_..." he whispered, trailing off.

_This is real. This is happening. I'm in the future._

"How am I still alive?" he asked.

"To be honest with you... we're not really sure," Fury said. "My docs say it was suspended animation. Something to do with Dr. Erskine's formula, the cold..." He shrugged. "I don't know."

Steve turned to look at him. "Did we win the war?" he asked.

Fury smiled. "Hell, yes. Unconditional surrender. Taking down Hydra was a big part of that."

A profound sense of gratitude managed to penetrate his shock. If that was true, then it _had_ all been worth it. He and Peggy had vowed not to stop until Hydra was destroyed, whatever it took. She must have faced the end of their task alone, but she had respected his choice. She must have understood.

But if the war was over...

"Now what?" Steve murmured. He hadn't meant to speak it out loud, but he did. After so many years of thinking of nothing but how to get to the war, and then of nothing but how to win it, he could hardly remember what life was like before. He'd been reshaped by Dr. Erskine with no other purpose in mind than to fight a war. How would he live without one?

Fury laughed humorlessly. "The world hasn't changed all _that_ much. We may not be at war, but it's the same now as it's always been in the course of human history: there are good people, and there are bad ones. And the good ones still have to stop the bad ones. There's a lot of work to be done; a soldier's work. The world can still use a man like you, Cap."

They pulled up to the curb, and a balding man in a suit opened the door for him. He fixed Steve with a strangely intent look and opened his mouth to say something, but Fury barked "Not now," and the balding man meekly kept his silence. Steve was taken back into the lobby he had just escaped from. Inside there were a lot of men and women standing around, looking at him warily.

"Stand down Code 13," Fury said loudly, and a woman hastened to repeat the order over the intercom. Reluctantly the uniformed men began to disperse.

Steve looked around the room. There was another massive bird logo on the wall, ringed by the words "Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." Below it were three framed portraits, and suddenly Steve stiffened in recognition: was that Howard Stark? It _was_, although his moustache was gray. And beside his portrait was...

He gazed open-mouthed up at the painting, thunderstruck. It was Peggy... but not as he had known her. She, too, was much older, with silver threading her hair, arranged in loose curls instead of the usual perfect rolls and waves.

It was like looking at a stranger with a face that was nevertheless inexplicably familiar. It was Peggy, but not-Peggy.

"This way," Fury said, taking his arm. "Dr. Stacey wants to see you. I don't think she was planning to let you go for a jog 5 minutes after waking up from a coma. Consider yourself warned. She's probably going to cluck over you like a mother hen."

Steve permitted himself to be led away, tearing his eyes away from the portrait, but his mind was reeling. He felt a powerful urge to look at his compass, as if to reassure himself that Peggy as he had known her really had existed. As he followed Fury down a corridor, Steve surreptitiously patted his pants pockets, hoping to feel that reassuring lump. It wasn't there. Where had it gone? In a pocket of his uniform? But they had changed his clothes. No, it wasn't in his uniform, he remembered. He'd taken it out as the plane was going down. With a start, he realized that after that hard of an impact with the surface, the compass could have bounced anywhere. It could be gone forever, right along with the little picture nestled in the lid that he'd clipped out of a newspaper.

This simple fact hit him with the force of a physical blow, and he barely noticed as he was taken into a hospital room - not the fake one he'd escaped from, but another one, this one filled with unfamiliar equipment, all beeping and blinking lights - and doctors and nurses bustled around him, checking his vitals and holding whispered conversations with Fury, who finally strode out of the room and left Steve alone with the medical team.

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me."

Coulson stood in the middle of the corridor gazing at Fury, disbelief etched on his features.

"You heard me," Fury said. "I need you in Boston, now. Our team there that was trying to reverse-engineer debris from the Destroyer? They had an accident this morning, tinkering around with the thing. Injured two technicians. I need someone competent overseeing operations there to make sure they find a safe way to turn it into something useful."

"Something hand-held, I know," Coulson said. "I read the Council's directive. But-"

"Then you know Phase 2 is our top priority."

"I know, but... it can't wait _one day_?" Coulson asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the medical wing.

"Captain America isn't going anywhere," Fury said flatly. "You'll meet him soon enough. Your Quinjet is waiting."

Coulson sighed, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "Okay, boss."

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** What do you think so far? Is everything making sense, and what has captured your interest? Take a moment and leave a review!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Fury came to see Steve later, and this time he brought with him a woman in a trim black uniform with her dark hair pinned up in a twist. Fury introduced her as Maria Hill, deputy director.

"Ma'am," he said politely, shaking her hand.

"Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Captain Rogers," Hill said. Her hand was cool and firm and she exuded a calm confidence that gave some clue as to why she had a position of authority despite being relatively young. She looked Welsh, he thought: black hair and blue eyes... and pretty. Usually that would make him instantly nervous, but he was so numb right now that he couldn't feel even that. A blessing, he supposed.

"I brought something for you," Hill said, while Fury leaned back against the door jam, watching. She was holding a picture frame in one hand, held in such a way that Steve couldn't see the picture. "It's the original, but I convinced the New-York Historical Society to lend it to us. You can keep it in your room for a while." She turned the picture so he could see. "It's the V-E Day celebration in Times Square," she said.

A large crowd of people faced the camera, all smiles, waving American flags and holding up newspapers that proclaimed: "Nazis Give Up" and "Germany Surrenders." Steve looked at it for a long moment, and then looked back up at Hill. "Thank you," he said.

She smiled, and handed the picture to another agent, who set to work putting it up on the wall.

"Did I hurt anyone?" Steve asked suddenly. "Earlier, when I-" He stopped, feeling sheepish about his earlier panicked escape. He'd never injured anyone on his own side before, not even by accident.

"No," Hill reassured him quickly. "No, everyone's fine. In fact, I think you gave them a good story to tell one day." She smiled in a friendly kind of way, but Steve was too embarrassed to be amused at the thought.

"I know this is a lot to take in right now, but we have a few questions we'd like to ask you, if that's all right," Hill continued. "We promised Dr. Stacey we would only take a few minutes."

"I don't mind," Steve said quickly. Anything to distract him from the thoughts running through his head.

"You said in your final report," Fury said, pushing off the door frame and glancing down at the file he held in his hand, "that Johann Schmidt was dead. There's just one problem: we didn't find his body on that plane. Only yours."

"No, you wouldn't," Steve said slowly, immediately understanding their concern; if he had survived the impossible, then Schmidt might have, too. "He kinda... disintegrated."

Fury looked at him levelly. "Explain that."

Steve took a deep breath. "The _Valkyrie_ was being powered by some kind of energy cube. The same device Hydra used to power their weapons, maybe. While we were fighting, it got knocked out of its housing. Schmidt picked up the cube in his hands. I'm not sure if he was intending to fix the mechanism or what, but he just stood there, holding it. Staring at it. And then there was-" He paused, trying to remember as clearly as possible. "-lightning, I think. Electricity crackling in the air, only it looked strange. And then the top of the plane opened up and I saw stars."

"_Stars_?" Fury repeated, looking skeptical, while Hill looked at him with a slight frown between her brows. "Soldier, the top of the plane was intact when we found it."

"I know," Steve said quickly, aware of how strange his story sounded. "I know. And it was daylight outside. But I saw stars."

"Go on," Fury said.

"And then the cube started to stream light, a really bright light straight up into the air, and he just... burned up. He disappeared."

"I see," Fury said. He and Hill exchanged an unfathomable glance. "And what happened to the cube? Did you touch it?"

"No. It melted a hole through the deck when he dropped it. It went into the ocean, I guess."

"Is there anything else you can tell us about the cube?" Hill asked. Steve shook his head, and Fury turned and headed toward the door.

"Colonel," Steve said quickly.

"Retired colonel, actually," Fury said, turning back toward him. "Just call me Fury. Everyone does."

"Yes, sir," Steve said. "Fury. Did you find anything on the plane besides me?"

"Such as?"

"Any of my... personal items?"

Fury smiled knowingly. "As a matter of fact, we did. We found your shield. Not a scratch on it, just like you. Maybe when you're feeling a little better, we can put it back in your hands and see what you can do with it."

Crestfallen, Steve paused for a moment before saying, "Thank you." He cleared his throat. "Did you find anything else?"

"You missing something in particular?"

"My compass," Steve said reluctantly. "I put it up on the controls as the plane was going down. It would have been in the cockpit somewhere."

Fury looked over at Agent Hill, who shrugged and shook her head.

"What did this compass look like?" Fury asked, but Steve hardly heard him. He felt as though the floor was dropping out from under him, as though he was the one melting through the floor and plummeting into a free-fall to the icy sea below. It was as he'd feared. His last piece of Peggy... gone. Along with everything else.

He swallowed, hard. "It was just a compass," he said quietly. "Probably got lost a long time ago."

* * *

"World Security Council," Fury told the elevator, and it began to ascend. He looked over at Hill. "I'll speak to the Council. You make sure the P.E.G.A.S.U.S. team gets a copy of that report. And make damn sure they know not to pick that thing up with their bare hands."

"I doubt we need to tell them that," Hill said. "They're being extremely careful." She tucked a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear. "Dr. Selvig will be excited to hear about the stars. You know he keeps insisting there's enough power in that thing to open an Einstein-Rosen bridge."

"He's obsessed with helping Foster make contact with Thor again," Fury said dismissively. "But the Council has other priorities for the Tesseract. Make sure he keeps his eye on the goal."

"Yes, sir," Hill said. "I'll make sure Barton's in the loop." A puzzled frown crossed her face, and she looked over at Fury.

"Was it just my imagination, or was Rogers more worried about his compass than his shield?" she asked.

Fury didn't respond. He was looking down, dialing a number on his phone. He held it up to his ear. "Redman? You still sifting through that wreckage? Did you find a compass? No, not in the instrumentation. A small one, pocket-sized, rattling around somewhere in the cockpit." He paused for a moment. "Well, find it. I need it." There was a longer pause. "I'm well aware of how much ice is in that plane, Agent. I don't care if you have to get down on your hands and knees and chip it out with a screwdriver. I want that compass, I want it yesterday, and I want it undamaged. Got it?" He hung up.

They rode the elevator in silence. Finally, Hill stirred again.

"You didn't tell Rogers we found the Tesseract," she said.

"Need-to-know basis, Hill," Fury said. The elevator doors opened. "Need-to-know basis."

* * *

Night came. The room they put Steve in didn't have a window, but a new shift for the medical team had come on and they had gotten him everything he needed to stay overnight and then left him alone in the darkened room. He'd caught a glimpse of armed soldiers outside his door as the last nurse left, having shown him what button to press if he needed anything. The nurses had tried to get him to eat something earlier, but he couldn't even think of eating right now. In the end they had persuaded him to drink some hot broth, and he had done his best to choke it down.

Alone at last, and having nothing better to do, Steve laid down on the bed, but didn't bother switching off the lamp. Sleep was far from his eyes.

They had shown him a photograph of the wreckage of the Valkyrie, with the fuselage jutting out of a massive block of ice and snow. That's where he'd been for 70 years. Alive. He hadn't taken any permanent harm. He apparently hadn't aged. Even his hair hadn't grown. He couldn't understand it, and the medical team seemed equally amazed. Steve knew he should be grateful for their care, should be grateful that his life had been preserved against all odds in what could only be described as a miracle, and yet he felt more like a victim of a freak accident. He was ashamed to realize that he didn't want their congratulations... he wanted condolences.

He _shouldn't_ have survived that. No one should. To be buried in the cold and the silence for years upon years upon years, and then to wake up to find that everyone and everything from his life had vanished except for him. The worst part was, he felt fine. Young and healthy and strong. After a childhood filled with so many illnesses, when his mother in desperation had done anything and everything in her power to nurse him back to health, the ease of his recovery mocked him now. He should have died in that plane. Anyone else would have.

He lifted up his hands and stared at them, so much bigger and stronger than they used to be. He'd had a few years now to get used to being in his new skin, and in all that time, not a day had gone by that he hadn't thanked God and Dr. Erskine for the miracle of the serum that had transformed him. He'd been able to do so much good with this gift.

And now, for the first time, he hated what he'd become.

Steve laid back on the bed. Time seemed to crawl, while the room around him spun. He longed for the oblivion of sleep, but it wouldn't come. His pulse pounded in his ears, and from time to time he couldn't stop a sudden trembling from sweeping over him. He stared up at the ceiling, dry-eyed, and waited for the night to end, but it didn't. A nurse came in to check on him and tried to give him a sleeping pill, but he refused. He already knew it wouldn't work; he couldn't be sedated anymore than he could get drunk. He'd found that out long ago. Finally she left him alone, and he rolled over onto his side. The bed was too soft - like sleeping on a marshmallow - and he contemplated moving to the floor, but he didn't move a muscle. The same dark thoughts swirled around in his brain in an unending cycle he could not break out of. Flashes of faces he'd known. Dugan and Morita. Ramirez and Falsworth. All the Howling Commandos. He hadn't asked about any of their fates, but he hardly needed to. He'd done the math. In his heart, he knew they were all gone. Even Howard and Peggy.

Peggy...

His fingers twitched, longing to reach for a compass that wasn't there. With a terrible effort, he forced himself to turn his thoughts elsewhere. He couldn't let himself think of Peggy. But then his thoughts grew darker instead. In his mind he could see the faceless masks of the Hydra fanatics. The skeletal head of the Red Skull glowing in the unearthly light of the cube. Once he had thought there was nothing worse than such nightmares, but now he would rather face them all again than _this_.

As he wrestled with his thoughts and the minutes slipped by in slow-motion, he began to feel strange inside. Like his stomach was twisting itself in knots. Maybe he wasn't as healthy as he thought.

The sensation in his middle worsened. Pretty soon, he felt truly awful in a way he hadn't felt since he'd had scarlet fever. He curled up into a ball on the bed and bit his lip hard, but the waves of nausea intensified. Suddenly, he jumped up from the bed and ran over to the garbage can and threw up. It was every bit as unpleasant as throwing up always was. When it was over, he sat back shakily on his heels, panting for breath. His hands, clutching the garbage can, had gone totally white.

Almost immediately there was a knock on the door and the nurse came back in, followed by the girl from earlier, the one in the dummy hospital room who had lied to him. She was dressed in a medical coat and slacks now, but her hair was still curled like she had just stepped out of the 1940s. Steve felt an irrational surge of anger at that. It was like she was playing dress-up with his past. Like it was all a joke.

They felt his forehead and the back of his neck. Made him sit on the bed and brought him water. Listened to his heart and lungs. Checked his blood pressure. Finally, the two women left him sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands, and held a hastily whispered conference at the other end of the room. The nurse left and the curly-haired girl walked over to the bed and sat down next to him.

"Captain Rogers? My name is Olivia," she said. "I'm a therapist who specializes in post-traumatic stress disorder." She paused. "What I mean is, shell shock. We call it PTSD now. I'm sorry about what happened earlier today. We intended to break the news to you gently, but I guess... well, you're a pretty observant guy. We weren't trying to fool you, really, but it must have looked that way, and I'm sorry."

"I know," he said stiffly. "Fury explained."

She put her hand on his back and rubbed it a little. It was all he could do not to pull away from her touch.

"Am I sick?" he asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

"You're having a panic attack," Olivia said. She rubbed his back again. "It might help if you talked about it," she said softly. "We're here to help, you know."

"I want to sleep now," he said, although he knew by now that wasn't going to happen tonight.

"It's a normal reaction, considering what's happened to-" she began.

"I can't sleep if you're in the room," he said.

Olivia took a deep breath. "Captain Rogers-"

"Go," he said briefly. After a long hesitation, she did just that. Alone again, Steve laid back on the too-soft bed and stared at the ceiling, feeling limp and defeated.

There was a knock, and the door opened again. Steve sat up, irritated, ready to tell the nurses to go away in more forceful tones this time, but it was someone new who came through the door: a young black man in coveralls, pushing a cleaning cart into the room.

"Hey, man," he said, glancing at Steve casually. "I'm just here to clean up."

Steve watched as the man put on gloves and crouched to remove the bag from the garbage can. The light from the lamp in the corner glinted off his name tag, which read "Gabe."

Steve watched him silently for a moment, and then said, "I had a friend named Gabe."

"Oh yeah?" Gabe said, glancing up from his work. "Was he a devilishly handsome fellow with plenty of smooth moves for the ladies, like me?"

Against his will, Steve smiled slightly, remembering Gabe Jones and his enthusiasm for pretty French girls. "Yeah, he was," he admitted.

"That's what I thought." Gabe chuckled. "Goes along with the name, I guess." He tossed the tied-up bag into his garbage can and pulled out a new liner.

Steve hadn't been able to get the nurses out of the room fast enough, but now, he found he suddenly wanted to talk. Not to have anyone make a fuss over him or ask him how he was feeling, but just to _talk_ to him like a normal human being.

"Been working here long?" Steve asked.

"Two years. I moved here from California."

"Like it here?"

Gabe shrugged. "It's not too bad. Pays better than most janitorial jobs, because of all the security clearances you have to get. I'm saving up to go to school. And I make enough to get me tickets to the ballpark sometimes."

"You're a baseball fan?" Steve asked.

"Sure am. You too?"

"Yeah."

"What's your team?" Gabe asked.

"Dodgers."

Gabe grinned broadly. "I knew I liked you. Everyone around here only ever wants to talk about the Yankees." His work was done, but he leaned back against the nurses' hand-washing station, getting comfortable. "Did you catch their last game of the season?"

"No, I missed that one."

Gabe started telling him about one of the plays that had happened during the game. Steve was able to follow most of his story, although Gabe sometimes sprinkled in phrases that meant nothing to him. Instant replay? It was something that had made the umpires change their minds about a call, apparently.

"Must have been exciting," he said when Gabe finished. "Sounds kinda like something that happened in 1939, versus the Red Sox. Guess the ump saw something no one else on the field did. Everyone in the bleachers hollered, but he ruled it an out."

Gabe whistled between his teeth in surprise. "1939? You know your Dodgers history. I can't tell you much about anything that happened before the 90s. That's when my dad started taking me to the games."

Up until this moment, Steve had had half an idea that Gabe, like Olivia, was merely a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent playing a role to keep him calm. Suddenly, he felt certain this was not the case. But just to be sure he asked, not caring how strange it would sound: "Do you... know who I am?"

Gabe laughed out loud. "Are you kidding me? This is S.H.I.E.L.D., and I'm a _janitor_. They don't tell me nothin'." He threw Steve an amused look. "And you better not tell me nothin' neither, or we'll both be in trouble."

Steve felt the tension in his shoulders relax ever so slightly. "So... who's your favorite player?"

"Clayton Kershaw."

"How come?"

Gabe snorted. "Isn't it obvious?"

Steve smiled wanly. "Humor me."

Gabe started telling him all about Kershaw. Steve listened to him chatter, relieved to have something other than his own thoughts to concentrate on. After a while, though, Gabe's monologue was interrupted by a chiming sound. The janitor pulled a slim device out of his pocket and looked at it. It was glowing in the dim light of the hospital room.

"What is that?" Steve asked curiously. The light the device was emitting was as bright and steady as any of the devices Hydra had built, and yet it didn't really look like a weapon.

"Nokia C6," Gabe said, not looking up. Steve opened his mouth to ask what that meant, but then Gabe made a face. "Ah, man. My supervisor's looking for me. I gotta go." He shoved the device back in his pocket, grabbed his cart and started wheeling it toward the door. "Hope you feel better, man," he called out over his shoulder as he left.

* * *

"How did he do last night?" Fury asked when everyone had assembled in the conference room.

"He didn't sleep at all," Dr. Stacey said. "And my nurses couldn't get him to eat more than a few bites this morning."

"Is it a medical problem?" Hill asked, concerned.

Stacey shook her head. "He's healthy, overall. Maybe it will take a day or two before all his systems kick back into gear. I don't know. It's really all guesswork at this point; it's not like we have any precedents to study. But no, missing a few meals isn't likely to hurt him much. I'd be more worried about his mental state, honestly."

"He had a panic attack last night," Olivia put in. "Not very surprising, considering everything, but it was rough on him."

"How can you help him?" Hill asked.

"I'm not sure I can," Olivia said bluntly. In response to Hill's surprised look, she continued reluctantly: "The first words out of my mouth to him were a deception. I lost his trust before I even had a chance to earn it. Now he's associated me with the trauma of what's happened. I can practically see the panic rising in his eyes every time he looks at me. You may have to find another therapist for him. He wouldn't respond to me at all last night, or this morning either."

"This is the Greatest Generation we're talking about," Fury said, tipping back in his chair. "My grandfather's generation. They didn't see therapists. They pulled themselves up by the bootstraps."

"We have an obligation to provide care for him," Olivia shot back, looking shocked. "He's been _traumatized._ I don't care what generation-"

Fury held up a hand. "I'm not saying we shouldn't provide care for him. I'm just saying, making him kick back on a couch and talk to Sigmund Freud may not be the only way to handle it."

Hill was deep in thought. "Isn't there _anyone_ he would have known who's still alive? Maybe just seeing a familiar face would put him at ease."

"All his Howling Commandos are dead," Fury said. "I already checked. And he didn't have any family to begin with."

"I think you're on the right track, though," Olivia said unexpectedly, glancing at Hill. "Having a friend to help them through a situation is just as important for a patient's recovery as talk therapy."

"Let me see what I can do with him," Hill said to Fury, her blue eyes intent. "I'll try to build some trust."

"Be cautious," Fury said. "If his head gets muddled, he'll be more of a liability than an asset to us."

"Olivia can advise me." Hill glanced over at her. "Anything I should know to start with?"

"It's pretty simple, really," Olivia said, leaning forward over the table and clasping her hands together. "Find out what he needs to keep him psychologically stable, and make sure he gets it."

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

**_Author's note:_**_ I welcome feedback! Go ahead and click that review button, you know you want to!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Maria Hill came back in the morning to see Steve again, just as a couple of agents were walking out, having measured him for new clothing and taken his photograph for a security badge he was told everyone in the building had to wear.

"How are you doing?" Hill asked.

"Fine."

"I'm... not sure what to call you," she suddenly confessed. "Captain Rogers? Cap? Steve?"

He shrugged a little. "Any of that."

"Which do you prefer?" she pressed.

Steve was quiet for a long moment. Going by his rank was probably best for keeping things professional, and he'd figured out since joining the Army that he wasn't so nervous around women when things were kept professional. But the plain truth was, he had never felt less like a captain in his life. He wasn't a leader here. He was just a patient, and everyone who came into the room looked at him with pity, not with hope. "Steve," he said finally.

"Steve," she repeated. "You're welcome to call me Maria."

He nodded.

"Dr. Stacey says you're having trouble sleeping," she said.

She paused expectantly, but Steve said nothing.

"Is there anything we can get you to help?" Hill asked.

"No," he said softly.

"The nurses said you aren't eating much," she continued.

He shrugged. What was there to say? It was what it was.

"Maybe what we have isn't familiar to you?" Hill guessed. "I mean, this is New York City. We can probably find you just about anything you can think of."

"I'm fine. Thank you."

Hill didn't really look satisfied with his answer, and Steve knew he'd have to forestall her before she kept up this line of inquiry, so he asked the first question that popped into his head. "Is Gabe working tonight?"

Hill frowned. "Who's Gabe?"

"The janitor. He came into my room last night."

"I'm not sure," Hill said, looking puzzled by the question. She opened her mouth to say something more, but then a nurse poked her head through the door. "We're ready to start the CT scan."

The next several hours were filled with the tedious process of being scanned in a claustrophobic tube, and waiting, getting his blood drawn, and waiting, having his strength and reflexes and eyesight tested, and waiting, and then enduring a long debate amongst the medical team about whether or not he needed to be given all the new vaccines that had been developed since he had been gone, given his already-enhanced immune system. It was like the first few days after his transformation, when all the researchers had been fixated on trying to duplicate the serum, and hardly acknowledged him as anything more than a lab rat to draw samples from. By the end of it, Steve was thoroughly demoralized. Finally, they took him back to his hospital room.

His room wasn't empty. Gabe the janitor was sitting in there, parked in a chair and watching television. He stood up as Steve walked in. "Hey, man," he said. Behind Steve, the nurse closed the door, leaving the two of them alone.

Gabe wasn't wearing his coveralls this time, but jeans and a T-shirt. Steve eyed him, confused.

"Game's about to start," Gabe said, gesturing to the television, which was blaring a commercial about Coca-Cola. So that was still around, then. Nice to know at least one thing hadn't changed. "Game 3 of the playoffs, Cardinals versus Rangers. Wish the Dodgers had made it this year, but it should be a good game anyway. You wanna watch?"

Steve creased his brow. "Don't you have to work?"

"Not today," Gabe said. "It's Steve, right? I'm not supposed to ask your last name, so don't tell me. Everything's all hush-hush 'Mission: Impossible' around here. Did you _see_ how many dudes they have standing guard in this section?" He chuckled in disbelief. "But they said I should come and hang with you."

"Did they... assign you to be my friend?" Steve asked in some disbelief.

"You tell me!" Gabe said, throwing up his hands expressively. "They told me they'd pay me double time to come in here and sit on my can and watch a baseball game with you. I couldn't really see the downside of that, so... here I am." He grinned jauntily.

Steve was quiet for a moment, letting that sink in. Gabe gave him a sideways look. "What are you thinkin', man?"

"I think they're not paying you enough," Steve said.

Gabe shook his head vigorously. "Hey, I'm just glad I still have a job. I got called in on my day off by that lady... Director Fury's right-hand man, you know the one? She takes me into her office and starts grilling me about what we talked about last night. I thought I was about to get the axe. And then she's like, no man, you gotta go back and talk baseball with him again." He shrugged. "I guess when you work for spooks, you might as well expect the unexpected, right?"

"I guess."

Steve stood there for a moment, and then, resigned to the situation, he pulled over another chair in front of the television and sat in it. It wasn't as though he had anything better to do.

Watching the game was both pain and pleasure. It felt familiar, immersing himself in the traditions of the game he'd loved since he was a child, yet none of it was really quite the same. He got his first shock when he realized from something the commentators said that the Dodgers weren't in Brooklyn anymore, but Los Angeles. Why? Steve had to bite his lip to keep from asking Gabe. Gabe had obviously not been told who he was, and he would find the question strange. Steve had to stop himself from asking a lot of questions. Some of the rules of baseball seemed to have changed. Even the commercials sometimes puzzled him. Thankfully, Gabe was a talker and he volunteered a lot of information without even realizing how helpful he was being. By the time Gabe left at the end of the game, Steve realized that despite the strangeness of the situation, the last couple of hours had been almost pleasant.

But it was only a temporary reprieve. When night came, Steve once again found himself lying on a bed in a dark room with a dull knot of anxiety in his stomach, totally unable to sleep. Again, a nurse pressed a sleeping pill on him, and this time he relented and took it, but as he'd suspected, it didn't do any good. He spent the whole night staring at the walls, trying not to think, and when morning finally came, he felt so agitated he wished he could crawl right out of his skin.

They brought him breakfast. He stared at his plate for a long time, knowing the nurses wanted him to eat, wanting to please them, but finally he pushed it away, untouched.

Hill came to see him not long after and asked him once again if she could get him anything to make him more comfortable. She seemed disappointed when he said no, but what was he supposed to say? _I want to go home_?

"What would help you sleep?" Hill asked.

"I can go days without sleep if I need to," Steve said.

"If you _need_ to," Hill repeated, frowning. "But-" She was quiet for a moment, and then suddenly she dropped the subject. She was more perceptive than some of the others, Steve was starting to realize. She knew when to back off.

An agent poked his head through the door. "Agent Hill? Fury wants to see you right away."

* * *

Fury was hacked off, Hill could see at a glance. He stood there with folded arms and fixed his eye on her.

"How is Rogers?" he asked tersely.

"Not good," Hill admitted. "Still not eating or sleeping. Barely talking."

That was clearly not what Fury wanted to hear. He started striding down the corridor without looking back, expecting her to follow.

"So how did the Council take the news?" Hill asked, a little breathless. Fury was walking so fast that she had to trot to keep up with him.

"They asked more questions about the bomb on Schmidt's plane than they did about Captain America," Fury said irritably.

"Are you telling me they didn't even recognize what a valuable tool just fell in our laps?" Hill said in some disbelief.

"We have an international agency filled with thousands of highly skilled operatives equipped with the best tech money can buy," Fury said. "How much of a difference can one man make, super soldier or not? _That's_ what they said. _That's_ what they think."

"Well, when the one man is Captain America-"

"They have a point," Fury said. "As much as I hate to admit it. We have the world's only stable super soldier... except he isn't exactly stable right now, is he?"

"He's in shock. He needs time," Hill said.

"Time we may not have. If we needed him for something - something like the Destroyer showing up in New Mexico, for example - he'd get flummoxed just trying to open the debriefing files on a laptop." Fury stopped in the middle of the lobby and flung his arms out for emphasis. "The man doesn't know how to use an ATM. He doesn't know how to get through airport security. He's probably never heard the word 'internet.' As it stands, he is totally unable to function in our world, and the Council knows it."

"So we teach him," Hill said, just as an agent in a dark suit approached them.

"Excuse me, Director," the agent said. "Agent Redman sent this. He said you wanted it right away." He handed a small box to Fury and then walked away.

Fury opened the box. Inside it was a compass. Fury took it out and turned it over in his hands. The initials S.R. were scratched onto the back. He popped open the lid, and Hill moved around to look, too. The compass was spinning, apparently still functional. There was a black-and-white photograph glued into the lid.

"A woman? The plot thickens," Hill said. She squinted at the photo. "She looks a little familiar..."

Fury silently pointed at the portraits hanging in the lobby, featuring the three S.H.I.E.L.D. founders.

"Peggy Carter?" Hill said in surprise, looking back and forth between the photos. "I suppose he _would_ have known her. Still, that's a little... personal, carrying around her photo like that." She glanced at Fury. "She retired back home to England, didn't she? Has anyone notified her that we found Rogers?"

"The Council doesn't want this publicized outside the walls of S.H.I.E.L.D. just yet," Fury said, "but I think we can make an exception for our former director, don't you?" He snapped the compass shut and put it back in the box.

"I'll call her," Hill asked.

"No. Get Agent 13 on the phone," Fury said. "She's posted at the Triskelion. Tell I need her here in New York as soon as possible." He handed the compass to Hill. "You give this back to him. I'd like to know what his reaction is."

* * *

Hill was apologetic when she came back into the room. She was holding a little box, turning it over and over in her hands.

"I'm sorry about the interruption," she said, coming to sit by Steve on the bed. "Things are a little crazy around here right now."

"I brought this for you," she added, holding out the box.

Steve took it and opened it, wondering if Hill had found some other museum artifact from the war that she thought would cheer him up, but to his shock, his eyes fell on his own compass. A whole jolt shot through his body before he could stop it. He _hadn't_ lost it. Somehow they had found it for him. He ached to open it right away and make sure the photo was still intact, but Hill was watching him, and a nurse had just walked into the room, too. Quickly, he snapped the box shut and set it on the table by the bed, pointedly not looking at it.

"Thank you," he said carefully.

"You're welcome," she said.

Steve realized he wouldn't be able to look at the compass properly anytime soon, not with the continual stream of people going in and out of his room all day, disturbing his privacy. But he also couldn't bear to spend one more moment sitting here with nothing to do, not with the box hovering in his peripheral vision, taunting him.

"I do want something," he said with sudden certainty, and Hill looked at him hopefully. Even the nurse paused in what she was doing with some machine to look over at him. "I want to go for a run."

"A run?" Hill looked skeptical. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea. You woke up from a coma a few days ago."

"Already had a run," Steve said matter-of-factly. "It didn't hurt me." He noticed that the nurse immediately looked nervous, as if she was afraid he was going to push someone through a wall again and run away right now. For a group of people who had supposedly read all about him in the history books, they really didn't know much about him, Steve realized.

"I can ask Dr. Stacey," the nurse put in, in a tone that suggested she was only humoring him. But Hill unexpectedly came to his defense.

"If he feels up to it, then he should," Hill said. "Maybe it would help him sleep tonight."

That turned out to be the persuasive argument. Dr. Stacey checked him over, flipped through his charts, and finally admitted that she couldn't see any reason why he couldn't try, if he felt up to it.

They took him through the corridors to a gymnasium. There were agents there lifting weights, practicing hand-to-hand combat on the mats, and jogging around an upper level track that circled the spacious room. Immediately it reminded Steve of the old days at Camp Lehigh, training for the Army, although everything here was much cleaner and nicer. He vaguely wondered where S.H.I.E.L.D. got the resources to build a headquarters like this, all gleaming surfaces and decked out with tech that would have made Howard Stark salivate. Supposedly they were no longer at war, which meant no more war bonds. Yet Hill had told him there were more S.H.I.E.L.D. facilities besides this one, including a much larger headquarters in Washington, D.C. Apparently someone had deep pockets.

First they had him run a few laps at a slow jog and then stop to get his vitals checked. Everything was fine, so they let him go again.

This time he took off at a faster clip, wanting to test whether he had lost any strength with everything that had happened to him. He moved to the inside track and began to pass up the other runners. So far, he felt good. The wind of his passage blew back his hair and it felt satisfying, even better than he had hoped, to finally be on the move instead of sitting around getting tested and questioned all day. Hill and Dr. Stacey and a few other agents were watching him carefully each time he went past, but no one called out for him to slow down.

He went a little faster, his heart beating faster to go along with his pace, but he felt no strain. His movement was smooth yet powerful. The shoes they'd given him were the best he'd ever had, the soles conforming so perfectly against his feet, and yet springy, almost launching him forward with every step. He could run like this all day.

He kicked it into high gear, putting everything he had into it, his long strides eating up the distance in great gulps. He was fairly sailing past the other runners, and he heard several gasps and exclamations as he went past. He took several laps at full speed like that. It felt good. It felt _amazing_. As good as the day after his transformation, when Peggy had taken him outside for speed trials, before they had sent her away overseas and left him behind to become a performing monkey for Senator Brandt. He finished another lap, noticing that the other runners had gotten off the track and were now gathered in a bunch, watching him fly past with wide eyes.

But in his mind's eye it was Peggy who was shooting him a sly look and saying yet again, "Let's see if you can do it faster this time, Steve."

He had, every time.

Steve ran his heart out. He ran and ran, for miles and miles, until his head was clear and he was good and ready to stop. By the time he did, everyone in the gym had stopped what they were doing to watch.

He pulled up to a stop, breathing quickly but not painfully. How many times had he wished for a blessing like that, after years of asthmatically wheezing his way through even moderate exercise? Suddenly he felt ashamed of himself for wishing, even for a moment, that his transformation hadn't happened. Dr. Erskine had done so much for him. He should be grateful, even in the face of this... unexpected side effect. He _was_ grateful.

"How do you feel?" Hill asked.

"Better," he admitted.

"You look better," she said a small smile.

* * *

Sharon Carter gave her name to Director Fury's assistant and tried not to show her nervousness as she waited to be seen. She'd been hoping all year for a transfer to Special Service, and she thought she'd been making inroads in putting herself in the good graces of Agent Li, yet so far she'd been shut out. Could Fury be notifying her that she had finally made the cut? But why bring her to New York to give her the news? Li himself could have done that, and his office was only three floors away from hers in the Triskelion.

She didn't have long to wait. Within minutes she was called into Fury's office. He told her to sit down, and then looked at her seriously across the desk.

"What do you know about Steven Rogers?"

For a moment, Sharon pulled a blank. Steven Rogers? Was there an agent at the Triskelion named Rogers? She didn't think... Then, suddenly, the name rang a distant bell.

"Steven Rogers, as in Captain America?" she said, puzzled.

Fury gazed at her levelly. "That's right."

Thrown off guard, Sharon wasn't sure what to say. She'd assumed Fury had some kind of special assignment for her, and now he was quizzing her about history? "I guess I know what everyone else knows about him," she said at last. "He was Captain America. I've been to the Smithsonian exhibit. I've read the accounts."

"But you know someone who knew him personally," Fury said pointedly.

Sharon felt a flush of irritation. Fury _knew_ she didn't like to talk about that. Hadn't he granted her request to keep her surname out of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files? Hadn't he promised that that information would be strictly limited to the two of them? As it was, she already feared Fury had only hired her because of the family connection. And she didn't want to skate by on that. She wanted to earn what she got on her own merits. Why was he bringing it up now?

"I don't know her as well as you might think," Sharon said. "She moved home to England when I was little. My family was only able to visit a handful of times." She had made those times count, it was true. Aunt Peggy was, without question, her personal hero, and as a result Sharon had joined S.H.I.E.L.D. against even the wishes of her own mother.

"The fact remains, you've seen Peggy Carter in settings that I haven't," Fury said. "Did she ever share anything about Rogers with you? Anything that might not have ended up published in her memoirs, for example?"

Knowing Fury's stubbornness, Sharon resigned herself to having this discussion. She shook her head slowly. "Not really. I think they were good friends as well as colleagues. Aunt Peggy gets a little emotional sometimes when she talks about him."

"What did she say about him?"

"The same thing everyone else says," Sharon said. "That he was a good man. That he fought like he had nothing to lose. That he was a natural leader, and that even the people who gave him orders had a tendency to follow his lead. Aunt Peggy used to say there was no better compliment to him than that. She kept a picture of him in her office, from before his experiment."

"From _before_?" Fury gaze bored into her. "You're sure?"

"It isn't hard to tell the difference."

Fury tapped his finger on his desk for a moment. "She's still married?" he asked.

"Yes. To my great-uncle Grant. I've never met him. He travelled a lot for his work, so he was never there when my family visited. I know both their children, though. Aunt Sarah and Uncle Mike."

Fury nodded thoughtfully, and seemed to come to a decision. He slapped a file down on the desk and pushed it toward her. "This is Level 6, Agent 13. This file doesn't get discussed with anyone but me or Hill." He stood up. "I'll be in the next room. When you're done reading it, let me know, and we'll talk some more."

* * *

By the time Fury came back into the room, Sharon's head was reeling.

"Well?" Fury said as he sat down. "What do you think?"

"It's... unbelievable, sir," Sharon said, glancing down at the photos again. "To get him back after all these years?" She shook her head in wonderment. "I guess he's going to be one of our best assets now, isn't he?"

"That's the hope," Fury said. "How do you think your aunt is going to react when she hears the news?"

"Great-aunt," Sharon corrected automatically. "I don't know, Fury. Happy that he's okay, I guess... but sad, too, that she didn't find him sooner. She and Howard Stark looked for a long time."

"I'll expect to get the full report from you," Fury said.

Sharon glanced up in surprise. "Sir? You want _me_ to tell her?"

"I think this news would be better coming from a family member," Fury said. "And it would be better delivered in person. Hill has your plane ticket ready to go. You leave for England in a few hours."

Sharon opened her mouth, but Fury was already halfway out of the room.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

**I welcome feedback! Please, leave a note and let me know what you think!**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's note:** Thanks to Guest, dissatisfieduser and Sage of Wind Dragon for leaving reviews!_

**Chapter 6**

When he had finished with his run, Steve headed to the gym's locker room for a shower, while Hill sent Agent Rodriguez back to his room to bring a change of clothes.

Long habituated to showering in places with a shortage of hot water, Steve washed up in record time. When he had finished and turned off the water, he realized he didn't have a towel. Wiping the water from his eyes and peering over the top of the stall, he saw a stack of folded towels across the way. Just then, a large group of men walked into the locker room, dressed in full combat gear with their faces painted in camouflage. One of them came over close by the shower stalls, put his foot up on the bench and started unlacing his combat boots.

"Hey, could you hand me a towel?" Steve asked him over the stall door.

The man nodded, walked over to grab a towel, and tossed it at him.

"Thanks," Steve said, catching it. He dried off, then tied the towel around his waist and came out of the stall. The man in camouflage paint was unzipping his vest, revealing straps that criss-crossed his chest over his T-shirt. There was a gun strapped to his side, and knives attached to his belt, along with something else Steve didn't recognize, a slender, handled rod that looked electronic. Whatever it was, this guy was geared up to the hilt.

"Just come back from a mission?" Steve asked curiously.

"Training mission," the man said, glancing over at him. "Got a couple of noobs on my team. Gotta get 'em up to speed."

Steve had no idea what a noob was, but it didn't sound complimentary. He sat down on the bench to wait for Agent Rodriguez to come back with his clothes. "How did they do?" he asked the camouflaged man, realizing that this was his first chance to talk to a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who wasn't in top leadership. He knew from his time in the Army that the picture of a military organization could look very different to the eyes of someone on the ground.

The man shrugged. He had dark eyes and dark hair, short on the sides but longer on top, mussed and sweaty. It was hard to tell what his face looked like under all the paint. "Decent. I get to hand-pick my team, so I don't end up with any idiots."

"What team is that?" Steve asked.

"STRIKE team," the man said.

"What's that?"

Steve could tell by the look the man gave him that he should have known what STRIKE team was, and involuntarily he flushed. How could he know?

"Counter-terrorism unit," the man explained after a beat. "You know that fly-in mission three weeks ago, in Pakistan? That was us. We go everywhere. Boko Haram, Al Queda, the Ten Rings... we put a lot of those guys in the ground." He looked Steve over. "You new here?"

"Yeah." Actually, he was _old_ here, but it amounted to the same thing.

"What team?"

"I don't really have an assignment," Steve said. Of course, he wasn't part of S.H.I.E.L.D. at all, but he wasn't even tempted to explain to this man that he was really... what? A patient? A guest? A science experiment gone terribly wrong... or miraculously right?

The man looked him over, his eyes flicking down to Steve's bare chest and arms and then back up again. "Would I be totally off-base if I guessed that you were pretty good at hand-to-hand combat?"

Steve paused for a moment. "Does it matter?"

The man shrugged again. "I have a hard time finding partners to spar with who can give me a challenge. I'm always on the lookout. What's your name?"

"Steve."

The man stuck his hand out. "Rumlow. Brock Rumlow."

They shook hands, and then Rumlow finished shedding his gear and got into the shower. By the time Agent Rodriguez brought Steve his clothes and he had finished dressing, most of the STRIKE team were in the process of getting dressed too, making loud jokes at each other's expenses in a rough but good-natured way. They were obviously a well-oiled team that had found unity through adversity. Watching them, Steve couldn't help but feel a certain longing. Would he ever find another team like his Commandos, one with such complete familiarity and trust that you could run into the most impossible situations without fear, knowing they had your back?

Rumlow finished getting dressed. Now that the camouflage was washed off, Steve could see that he had a 5 o'clock shadow and some subtle scarring near his left eye.

"STRIKE team, to the cafeteria, double time!" Rumlow called with a crooked grin. "Let's see if Castillo can eat S.H.I.E.L.D. out of house and home again."

"Watch and learn, my friends," one of the men shot back. "Watch and learn."

The men laughed and began to troop out of the locker room. As Rumlow left, he turned and glanced over at Steve. "You coming, big guy?"

"Uh... sure," he said, surprised.

They left the locker room, and Steve jogged over to where Hill was waiting for him and explained where he was going. She didn't seem opposed to the idea at all, and agreed to come get him in the cafeteria a little later.

They all got their food and sat down at a long table. At first Steve mostly listened to the other guys talk. But after a while there was a lull, and he looked at Rumlow sitting next to him and asked, "So what brought you here? Why did you join the STRIKE team?"

Rumlow shrugged as he finished chewing. "Partly 'cause it's the best of the best, I guess. Partly because it really ticks me off that a couple of idiots from some backwater country can come into my backyard and bring down the Twin Towers. Terrorists breed chaos, you know? I like _order_. I'll pay for it in pain if I have to. Right, guys?" He glanced around the table.

"We eat pain for breakfast," Rollins quipped, and the guys around him laughed.

"The Twin Towers?" Steve repeated, but no one heard him over the laughter.

"Well, at least they finally nailed bin Laden this year," Rumlow said. "Took the Navy long enough. They shoulda put us on that one." There was a general murmur of agreement.

Whatever they were talking about, it was clearly important. Steve made a mental note to ask Hill about it later.

The conversation moved on to other topics. Steve was so intent on following what the guys were saying that he didn't pay much attention to what he was eating, until he looked down and realized with some surprise that he had just cleaned his plate. Well, the nurses would be happy with him for a change.

"So where were you before this?" Rumlow asked Steve.

"The Army."

"Oh yeah? Green Berets? Rangers?"

Steve answered carefully. "Me and my unit, we kinda did our own thing."

"What, like black ops?" Rumlow looked intrigued.

"It was really more red, white and blue," Steve said.

A loud conversation at the other end of the table erupted into hoots and gales of laughter from the STRIKE team. It was hard to understand much of what the guys were saying amid the uproar, but it seemed to have something to do with a woman, and it didn't sound very polite.

Steve braced himself for the turn the conversation was about to take — he'd been in the Army, after all, and it was inevitable that the talk would turn to certain things when a room was full of men. But he couldn't help but grimace a little as he glanced at the two women at the table who were apparently also members of the STRIKE team — and the guys showed no signs of holding back on the ribald talk despite the mixed company.

"We shouldn't have this discussion here," Steve said, his voice cutting across the chatter.

"Why not?" Rollins asked, squinting at him in puzzlement.

"Because there are ladies present."

He got a few weird looks, but far more of the guys seemed to think he was joking, and they laughed loudly, with Castillo reaching over to pound Steve on the shoulder appreciatively. Oddly enough, one of the women was laughing just as loudly as the guys. Confused, Steve looked at the other woman. He thought _she_ at least looked uncomfortable, and yet she quickly looked away from Steve and down to her plate, shrugging one shoulder as if to indicate that what was happening was no big deal.

"Rogers!" Steve looked around and saw Hill waving at him from across the cafeteria. "Time to go!"

Steve started to get up from the table, but Rollins suddenly snorted into his coffee. "Rogers?" he exclaimed, looking up at Steve with a grin creeping across his face. "Your name is _Steve Rogers_?"

"Talk about unfortunate," one of the other guys said. "What were your parents thinking?"

"Do people bug you for autographs?" Castillo asked.

"Ever dress up like him for Halloween?" another asked, and there were guffaws all around.

But Rumlow was staring at Steve wide-eyed, without a trace of a smile.

"You're the spitting image," he said suddenly. STRIKE team stopped laughing and looked back and forth between Rumlow and Steve.

"Well, it was nice to meet you fellas," Steve said quickly, and made his escape.

When he caught up to Hill, Steve glanced back at the table. Everyone in the STRIKE team was staring at him, looking dumbfounded.

"I think they recognized me," Steve told Hill as they walked away.

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Fury will be making an official agency-wide announcement tomorrow, and then they'll all know. He's at the White House today, by the way, briefing the president."

"Who is the president?" Steve asked curiously.

"Matthew Ellis."

"Is he good?"

Hill grimaced and made a so-so gesture with her hand.

"Well, _I _didn't vote for him," Steve said.

Hill gave him a startled look, but the moment she realized he was joking, she laughed out loud in sudden surprise and delight. She had a nice laugh. He hadn't heard it before. But then, he hadn't been in a joking mood before. His humor felt rusty, like a rifle that had been dropped in the mud weeks ago and was never cleaned out properly. But the STRIKE team's levity had been infectious, even if it had been rough.

"I'd like to take you on a tour of the building now, if you're up to it," Hill said, the smile lingering on her face.

He was, and so for the next several hours she took him around to the various departments of the agency, explaining to him in detail what S.H.I.E.L.D. was and what it did. Like the SSR, he learned, it nurtured scientists whose discoveries were used to counter the increasingly sophisticated weapons being developed around the world, and also maintained a standing paramilitary force well-trained in combat and espionage.

"We leave the full-scale military operations to the armed forces of whatever country is facing a threat," Hill explained. "We're not an army, but we excel at small-scale, precision strikes." She cocked her head and smiled a little. "Something like your Commandos, right?"

There were differences, though, Steve realized as Hill kept talking. Much like the SSR, there were multiple countries that contributed to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s personnel and funding, but unlike the SSR, the agency did not ultimately answer to the U.S. president, but to a World Security Council made up of leaders from a handful of the most influential nations. Steve was surprised by this, but Hill explained that while he had slept, there had been a trend toward international cooperation, in part because of the success of the Allies.

"The United States is still the world's superpower," Hill said, "but we also realize it isn't only about us. A lot of the threats we face — terrorists, for example — are bound more by ideology than nationalism. They don't fight for any particular country, and they move across borders freely to do what they do. We need to be free to do the same."

As the tour went on, it became clear to Steve that there was a streak of idealism running through Hill's external practicality. Although he could see that she held no illusions about the dangers of the real world, she also spoke of protecting the peace with a passionate sincerity. He was impressed; it spoke well of an organization that it could attract someone of Hill's caliber to its ranks. Suddenly he wondered about his own status. Was he still technically in the Army? He had operated as an officer under the umbrella of the SSR, but if the SSR had been subsumed into S.H.I.E.L.D., and S.H.I.E.L.D. was no longer affiliated with the Army...

"Was I designated killed in action?" he asked Hill.

"Not initially," Hill said. "I believe Director Carter insisted that you be listed as missing in action. But at some point somebody in the Army got a bug up their-" She paused. "Well, you know how it is in the military. Anyway, someone declared you dead at some point."

Steve had stopped cold in the middle of the corridor, missing half of what Hill had just said. "_Director_ Carter?"

Hill stopped to face him. "Yes. Peggy Carter. She helped found S.H.I.E.L.D., and she became our director sometime in the '70s, I believe. You knew her, didn't you?"

So _that_ was why her portrait was in the lobby. Maybe she had grieved for him for a time, but it hadn't broken her. She had continued on with her work. She had made something of her life. A warm sensation filled his chest, a swell of pride that spread down to the tips of his toes. She'd fought so hard for her career in the old days, encountering resistance every step of the way, but she'd never given up. Like him, Peggy had learned never to run away from a fight. She'd fought her way all the way to the top, and she'd built something good. Something enduring. Something that made the world a better place.

"Captain?" Hill said.

He blinked a few times, coming back to the present. Hill was looking at him curiously, head cocked to the side.

"I want to try to sleep now," he told her, not caring how abrupt it sounded. Between his long run and his first decent meal since waking up, he actually _was_ feeling sleepy, but it was more than that. There was something he needed to see.

Hill readily agreed, even though the evening sun was still shining through the windows, and before long he was back in his room and the nurses had been instructed not to disturb him. Steve lay back on the bed, but didn't switch off the lamp. Instead, he reached for his compass, still waiting for him on the nightstand. Holding his breath, he opened it.

The picture was there, whole and undamaged. Steve felt both relief and joy rush over him. He relaxed against the pillow, gazing at it, eyes roaming over Peggy's familiar features. It was only a black and white photograph, but her beauty shone out nonetheless, her dark hair and lips contrasting with her fair skin. Finally, when he had looked his fill, Steve turned off the light and closed the lid of the compass, but he still held it in the palm of his hand, the cool metal gradually warming to match his body heat. Slowly, his eyelids drooped, and at long last, he fell asleep.

* * *

He woke up early the next morning. Too early - all was still quiet outside his room - but then again he had gone to bed early. He felt well-rested for a change. Almost human again. And the compass was still in his hand. He flipped it open and lay there in the early-morning stillness, looking at Peggy's picture again.

She would have hated to see him the way he had been the last few days. Probably would have stormed across the room, heels clicking sharply, to tell him to stop being so dramatic already and get back to work.

_That's it,_ he decided. _I gotta snap out of this. No more feeling sorry for myself. It is what it is. I'm just gonna have to make the best of it._

He needed a plan of action. And so he got dressed, combed his hair and started making one. When Hill came in that morning and asked him yet again if he needed anything, this time he was ready with an answer.

"Can I get some books?" he asked.

"Yes, absolutely," she said, brightening. "What do you like to read?"

"I want something on World War II," he said. "Especially about the end of it. And some books about the biggest things to happen in the last 70 years. Elections, and inventions, and whatever else happened that was important."

"That's a great idea," Hill said, writing it down on her clipboard. "I'm sure we can find something like that. Okay, anything else?"

"Today's newspaper," Steve said. "And a notebook and pen. And maybe a sketch pad, too."

Hill was writing as fast as she could. "You're an artist?" she asked curiously, glancing up.

"Not really. I only had one year of school. I just do it for myself, when I have the time."

Hill finished writing. "I can get all this to you in less than an hour. Fury's holding a meeting with the agents level 4 and up in the briefing room right now, to announce your return. It's being broadcast to our other locations as well." She handed her notes to an assistant, who left the room. "Fury wants to move you to another location as soon as the briefing is over," she added. "You don't really need to be here for medical care anymore, but what you _do_ need to do is a lot of catching up. You're not adapted to live in this time. We're going to remedy that."

"Move where?" Steve asked.

"There's a safe house S.H.I.E.L.D. maintains called the Retreat," Hill said. "It's a cabin in the woods in a remote location. It's home-like, but very secure. You should be comfortable there."

"For how long?"

Hill shrugged. "Maybe a month or two. Depends on how fast you learn. The computer alone is going to take quite a while, I think, but it has to be done. Everyone uses them on a daily basis, nowadays."

"Who's going to teach me?" Steve asked.

"I'm putting together a team of agents," Hill said. "We don't have any shortage of computer experts around here."

Steve thought for a moment. "You said _everyone_ knows how to use a computer?"

"Yes."

"Couldn't Gabe teach me?" He didn't relish the thought of spending weeks cooped up in one place with a lot of agents fussing over him. Normality was what he craved, he was beginning to realize. So far his time with Gabe had been the closest thing to normal he had experienced since waking up. The young man's determined quest to better himself despite his personal hardships reminded him of his own youth, and of the many down-and-out young men he had known, growing up in his Brooklyn neighborhood.

Hill paused. "Gabe isn't really cleared for something like this," she said slowly, "but I think I could make it happen for you. We'd have to tell him a cover story, though. Otherwise he won't understand why you don't know how to do things everyone else does."

"Tell him I got brain damage," Steve said. "It's close enough to the truth."

"Your brain seems fine to me," Hill said with a wry smile.

Steve shook his head ruefully. "I got a lot of 'what's-wrong-with-you' looks yesterday, sitting with those guys in the cafeteria."

"The problem may be with them, not you," Hill said. She coughed loudly, choking out a garbled word that sounded something like _testosterone_.

"Not a lot of gentlemen on the STRIKE team," Hill added, "but then, that isn't what we hired them for. You don't kill terrorists with niceness."

As soon as all the arrangements were made and his belongings had been packed up, Hill escorted Steve to the lobby. They arrived just as a crowd of agents began filing out of a conference room on the upper level. They caught sight of Steve standing below, waiting for Hill to finish discussing something with the woman at the front desk, and immediately he noticed faces lighting up in recognition. That must be Fury's briefing that Hill had mentioned, notifying them of Steve Rogers' return. Many of the agents exchanged glances with each other, smiling and whispering to each other, and then, as they came down the stairs toward him, someone whistled and began to clap.

Suddenly everyone was clapping, and Steve found himself surrounded by a knot of agents, all wanting to shake his hand and introduce themselves, and share with him a dozen variations of "We're so glad to have you back!"

Patiently, Steve shook everyone's hands and worked to match faces with names. He had once found this part of the job awkward, once his show had taken off and he'd been mobbed after each performance by people who wanted autographs and photographs with Captain America, but with time and a lot of hard work, he had eventually worked out the right things to say to put people at ease and make them feel like they were noticed and appreciated. He found all those old skills coming back to him in an instant; it was like riding a bike. Nick Fury stood up on the balcony, silently watching the proceedings below.

A pair of men approached Steve. "Agent Rollins, Agent Rumlow," Steve said politely, recognizing them both from the STRIKE team.

"Looking forward to working with you, Cap," Rumlow said, shaking his hand with a friendly smile that creased his cheeks and crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"It's good to be back," Steve said, pumping his hand — and for a moment, despite the regret that had perpetually hovered in the background of his mind since the moment he woke up from the ice — he meant it. It felt good to be wanted. It felt good to have a place.

Eventually, though, Agent Hill put her arm around Steve and regretfully pulled him away from the eager crowd, guiding him outside to where a black vehicle waited at the curb to take him away.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** I'd love to hear what you think! Feel free to leave a review._


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's note: **Thanks for the reviews, PrimeReader and ninjarider1! And to answer a question, Natasha Romanoff will indeed be entering this story eventually!_

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Aunt Peggy's daughter, Aunt Sarah, came to meet Sharon at Southampton Airport. Sharon spotted her easily as she emerged into the baggage area: a tall, blonde woman who was surprisingly robust for someone her age; not so much as a hint of a stoop in her shoulders, although she must be in her 60s now. She moved toward Sharon and eagerly hugged her, a smile turning her blue eyes into twin arches.

"So glad to see you, darling," Aunt Sarah said warmly, holding her at arm's length to get a good look at her. "Well, you don't look very agent-y at the moment, do you?" She had an American accent, having lived most of her life there, but she and her husband had moved to England 20 years ago when her parents had. Sharon was glad; it was good that Aunt Peggy had family nearby to keep her company.

"I'm on vacation," Sharon answered, glancing down at her jeans and floral top, although she instantly felt guilty at the half-truth. She was glad for the chance to visit, but she wouldn't be here now if Fury hadn't sent her. "How are your kids?" It had been quite a while since she'd seen them, although she had fond memories of spending time with her cousins during her family's visits to England.

"Oh, fine, fine," Aunt Sarah said. She kept up a steady stream of chatter as they retrieved Sharon's luggage and took it out to the car, updating Sharon on all the family news.

"How is Aunt Peggy?" Sharon asked once they were on the road.

"As well as can be expected, for a 90-year-old," Aunt Sarah said. "She gets around all right, but she's started to experience a memory lapse here and there. If it happens, don't let her see that you're worried. It's the early stages of Alzheimer's, but most of the time she's still with it, mentally. You should get a good visit with her. How long are you staying?"

"Not long," Sharon said regretfully; Fury would be waiting for her report, and just thinking about all the work that Agent Li was going to pile up on her desk while she was gone made her feel anxious. "But I really wanted to spend some time with Aunt Peggy. Who else is home?"

"Dave, of course, although he's booked up with patients today." Dave was Aunt Sarah's husband. The four of them all lived in the same cottage, just on different floors. "And your Uncle Mike is visiting, although he didn't bring Tien or any of the kids this time."

Aunt Peggy's family had always been very close-knit. Even though Uncle Mike and Aunt Tien had stayed in America to be close to their grandchildren, Sharon knew there was a lot of travel back and forth for visits.

"And Great-Uncle Grant, too?" she asked.

Aunt Sarah's smile faded. "Not this time, I'm afraid. He's visiting a friend in San Francisco. I took him to the airport this morning. You two probably passed each other in the air."

Sharon was sorry to hear it. She had assumed she would finally get to meet him on this trip, now that both he and Aunt Peggy were getting along in years and no longer jetting around the world. Aunt Peggy was likely to be upset when she heard the news Sharon had come to deliver; it would have been better for her to have her husband there to support her. But at least Aunt Sarah and Uncle Mike would be there.

They had arrived in Winchester. Aunt Sarah parked the car and insisted on being the one to bring Sharon's suitcase into the cottage, although Sharon warned her repeatedly about how heavy it was, since she had brought gifts for the family. But Aunt Sarah had no trouble bringing it in, and she left Sharon sitting in the front room with the suitcase parked beside her while she went back to fetch Aunt Peggy.

Sharon waited in a comfortable chair, trying not to jiggle her leg from the nervousness. She distracted herself by looking around. The cottage was on a comfortable-sized lot with a beautiful English garden, and everything inside was neat and pretty as always, and much as she remembered it from earlier visits. There was something about the wall decorations that seemed somehow off to Sharon, though, the longer she looked at them. Some of the framed arrangements were asymmetrical, like there should have been more frames than there were. Maybe they were in the process of cleaning or replacing some of the photos.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and a few moments later Uncle Mike arrived. He paused just inside the doorway, his hands clasped over his belt buckle, his broad shoulders filling the door frame.

"Well, well, well." His deep voice was resonant, and his lips quirked up into a smile. "If it isn't Agent 13."

Sharon rose and gave him a quick hug. Uncle Mike was a head taller than her, and his back muscles felt firm against her palms as she embraced him. She had seen him more recently than Aunt Sarah, so she wasn't surprised to see that much of his hair was still dark, although it was silvering at his temples.

"So how goes the anonymity?" he asked, his dark eyes meeting hers with a teasing smile. "Get used to being called by a number yet?"

"Getting there," she answered, smiling; Uncle Mike knew better than anyone what it was like, since he too had served as a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative under a number — Agent 45 — wanting to be judged on his own merits and not his mother's. It was where Sharon had gotten the idea. Aunt Peggy was as lovable as could be, but she did cast a long shadow over them both. If Sharon could end her career even half as successfully as Uncle Mike had — S.H.I.E.L.D. had insisted on him remaining as a trainer for their agents long after he had retired from active service — she would count herself lucky.

More footsteps were shuffling closer, and Uncle Mike stepped aside as Aunt Sarah led Aunt Peggy into the room.

Aunt Peggy was walking slowly, holding Aunt Sarah's arm, wearing a loose dark blue dress. Her hair, fully gray but still long and full, tumbled down over her shoulders in loose waves. Her eyes met Sharon's and she smiled, her expression as lively and her eyes as warm as ever, despite the fine web of wrinkles crisscrossing her face.

"Aunt Peggy," Sharon said gladly, reaching out. Aunt Sarah kept a hand on Aunt Peggy's elbow to steady her as she hugged Sharon.

"So good to see you, Sharon," Aunt Peggy said, pulling back and clasping Sharon's hands in her own. Her hands were cold and shaking slightly. "How are your parents, darling?" She still had her crisp British accent, despite living half her life in the States, and Sharon never tired of hearing it.

"They're doing fine," Sharon answered. "Keeping busy, but they came to D.C. to visit me last Christmas."

Aunt Sarah helped Aunt Peggy slowly ease down onto the chair beside Sharon's, and then she took her own seat on the nearby couch, side by side with Uncle Mike. The two of them made a contrasting picture, he with his dark hair and she with her light, their shoulders touching with the natural intimacy so common between twins.

"And your grandmother?" Aunt Peggy continued.

"The same as always." Sharon didn't need to elaborate, as Aunt Peggy knew the situation all too well. Her grandmother Irene had been devastated when Aunt Peggy's brother, Michael, was killed in action during World War II, leaving her alone with their unborn child. She had eventually remarried and had two more children, including Sharon's father Richard, but according to family rumor she had never really recovered from the death of her first husband. When her marriage to her second husband — Sharon's grandfather — had fallen apart, she had changed her surname back to Carter, along with the surnames of all three children... and never again remarried.

Even though the name of Carter had complicated Sharon's career choice, she was proud to carry the name anyway. No one on the Carter side had ever differentiated between Aunt Karen, who was related by blood, and Sharon's father Richard and his brother Mark, who were only related by marriage. They were one family.

The four of them sat there chatting for a while, catching up on all the news, but eventually Sharon took a deep breath, knowing it was time to carry out her assignment. As soon as there was a pause in the conversation, she dove in.

"Can I talk to Aunt Peggy alone for a few minutes?" she asked, glancing over at Aunt Sarah and Uncle Mike.

"No," Uncle Mike said simply.

Sharon blinked several times, recognizing instantly that he wasn't joking, although normally Uncle Mike had a wonderful sense of humor. All three of her relatives were looking at her seriously, and a strange tension had suddenly invaded the atmosphere in the room. But why? They didn't know why she was here.

"It's... S.H.I.E.L.D. business," she said reluctantly, with a fresh stab of guilt. "Aunt Peggy's eyes only."

"If it's S.H.I.E.L.D. business, then it's our whole family's business," Uncle Mike said firmly. "Whatever it is you have to say, the three of us are going to hear it together."

"I... I can't," Sharon said, confused and uncertain as to why Uncle Mike was doing this. "It's my job on the line. You know how it is."

"What Fury doesn't know can't hurt him," Uncle Mike said coolly.

Sharon hesitated for a long moment. It _was_ better for Aunt Peggy to have her children here in the room, but this was sensitive information. Then again... there was no chance that Steve Rogers' return would stay a secret forever, Sharon realized. Sooner or later Fury would put him on duty. You don't waste a one-of-a-kind asset like that. And someone with Rogers' talents would attract attention in any case. He would be almost as useful as a symbol as he was as a bona fide super soldier, just like he had been back in the day. How much would it really hurt if Aunt Peggy's children knew a little sooner than the rest of the world? They were trustworthy, Sharon knew. It seemed to be the defining feature of this family, in fact.

"This can't leave the room," Sharon said firmly, looking all three of them in the eye, especially Aunt Sarah. She had never worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., opting instead to become a doctor, but surely she knew the importance of controlling sensitive information. "You have to promise me."

"I think you'll find that we're very good at keeping secrets in this family," Aunt Sarah said.

Sharon unzipped her suitcase and pulled out the file she had brought. Sitting on the edge of her chair, she held the file tight against her chest for a moment. She'd spent a lot of time on the flight thinking about how to approach this.

"Aunt Peggy," she started, "about a year ago, Director Fury decided to reopen an old investigation from your time at S.H.I.E.L.D. I'm not exactly sure why — it seems to be above my security clearance — but we had..." She took a deep breath. "We had a search team traveling a grid up in the Arctic, around Greenland, looking for plane wreckage."

She knew Aunt Peggy would know what that meant. Howard Stark had had his people searching that same area off and on for several years, although he ultimately came up empty-handed. And yes, Aunt Peggy's eyes had widened slightly in recognition, although she didn't say anything. To the side of her, on the couch, both Aunt Sarah and Uncle Mike shifted position, leaning forward, more alert. Sharon pressed on.

"After a couple of months," Sharon said, "they found a Hydra parasit fighter, one of the flying bombs that Johann Schmidt meant to deploy from his bomber plane, the _Valkyrie. _The pilot's body was still in it, frozen. It was a big breakthrough. The search team used the position of the fighter to make new calculations of the _Valkyrie's_ flight line, along with everything we know now about the ocean currents and weather patterns in that area, and they narrowed down the search area quite a bit. Our search team even enlisted the help of other people in the vicinity — ships, planes, research stations, everything — and offered a reward if they would keep an eye out.

"Finally, about a week ago, a Russian oil tanker spotted something unusual in an ice field. It looked like a man-made structure where there shouldn't be one. They informed S.H.I.E.L.D.'s search team, and when they went to investigate..."

"It was the _Valkyrie_," Aunt Peggy finished softly.

Sharon nodded. "It was the _Valkyrie_." She watched Aunt Peggy closely, trying to evaluate how she was handling this. Her expression looked a little distant, her eyes a little moist, but she seemed okay so far.

"What did they find inside?" Aunt Sarah asked. Her jaw clenched tightly and suddenly she reached out over the arm of Aunt Peggy's chair and held her mother's hand.

"The plane was mostly intact," Sharon said. "One of the wings had snapped off, but they think the fuselage just slid along the surface of the ice field until it came to a stop. Everything inside was still in one piece."

"Aunt Peggy..." she said then, as gently as she could. "They found your friend, Steve Rogers."

Aunt Peggy paused for a long moment, and then she simply nodded, as silent tears overflowed her eyes and slid down her wrinkled cheeks.

"We looked for him for so long," she said tearfully. "So long." She looked small, hunched in on herself, heartbreak in her eyes. "He waited so long..."

"He couldn't have been found any sooner than this," Uncle Mike said firmly, looking at his mother. "We know that."

Sharon nodded, eager to comfort Aunt Peggy on that point, too. "I'm sure Howard Stark did everything possible, but he just didn't have the resources he needed."

"It was meant to be," Aunt Sarah said, gently squeezing her mother's hand. "You've said so yourself."

"There's more," Sharon said. "And this part, Aunt Peggy... it's a little strange." She took a deep breath. This was the part of the explanation she had been dreading the most, because of its sheer impossibility. Aunt Peggy must have braced herself long ago for the day when Captain Rogers' body would be found — within days of his disappearance, she must have known in her heart that he was dead — but she simply could not have anticipated what had happened next. No one could have.

"When S.H.I.E.L.D. brought him back to New York," Sharon said slowly, "they intended to perform an autopsy. But then they noticed some things about his body that confused them. They found-" There was really no other way to say it, and so she simply said it. "-they found signs of life."

Sharon had expected shock. Disbelief. Confusion. But to her surprise, Aunt Peggy simply nodded again, brushing away another tear with the back of her hand.

"He was sleeping," she said, her voice cracking a little. "Only sleeping."

"Yes..." Sharon said slowly, surprised that Aunt Peggy had come to the conclusion so readily.

"And they woke him up?" Uncle Mike asked. Like Aunt Sarah, his jaw was clenched, radiating tension across his face.

"They did," Sharon said. "They revived him. He's... he's healthy and strong. It's like nothing even happened. The doctors can't really explain it, but... he's back with us, alive and well."

Lowering the file she was clutching down to her lap, Sharon pulled out a photograph and handed it to Aunt Peggy. "This was taken several days ago."

Her aunt's hand trembled a little as she looked at the photograph. Captain Rogers, his expression serious, was looking straight into the camera, wearing modern clothing. His handsome face was marred somewhat by a kind of stunned look in his eyes. The kind of look people got after they'd witnessed something horrific. A thousand-yard stare.

Seeing it, Aunt Peggy's shoulders shook, and quiet sobs began to rack her body. Sharon reached over and put one of her hands on Aunt Peggy's, who clung to her tightly.

"He must be so frightened," Aunt Peggy said tearfully. Reluctantly, she handed the photograph to Aunt Sarah for her to see.

"They're taking good care of him at S.H.I.E.L.D.," Sharon assured her. "Doctors, a therapist... Fury himself is overseeing his recovery. I'm sure it's been a shock for him, but they'll get him settled in eventually. He'll be fine."

She glanced over at Uncle Mike and Aunt Sarah. They were both weeping silently, sitting side by side looking at the photograph, which struck Sharon as a little strange. They had grown up hearing the stories of Captain America from Aunt Peggy, she had no doubt, but he could not have been anything more than a bedtime story to them.

"He won't know anyone," Aunt Peggy said a little breathlessly. "Anyone or anything, in this time. He's just... alone." Her voice broke on the last word.

"I'm sure if you asked to see him, Fury wouldn't turn you down," Sharon said.

There was a long pause, and Aunt Peggy voice was strained when she finally answered. "I think I had better wait until he's ready to see me. I'm not... as he remembers me anymore."

"Whatever you think is best," Sharon said.

Aunt Peggy wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, and gradually she grew calmer. Finally, she looked up at Sharon with that old determined look on her face, the one that must have given her agents back in the day the instinctive urge to jump to her support, whatever was needed.

"You'll watch over him for me, of course," Aunt Peggy said matter-of-factly.

Surprised, Sharon hesitated a moment. "I don't think so, Aunt Peggy. I'm not going to be working with him. I haven't even met him. He's in New York, I'm posted at the Triskelion. Fury just sent me to inform you."

"You'll keep him safe," Aunt Peggy said firmly. "You'll protect him."

Had she heard and understood what Sharon had said? Was this a mental lapse she was seeing, like Aunt Sarah had warned her about? Sharon forced a light laugh. "If everything I've heard about him is true, Aunt Peggy, he hardly needs protecting from someone like me."

"But you will," Aunt Peggy said. "Promise me. Promise me that no matter what happens, you'll be on his side."

"I..."

"Promise me, Sharon."

Sharon smiled a little ruefully. "You know I can't tell you no, Aunt Peggy."

Aunt Peggy reached out a wrinkled hand, and patted Sharon's hand with a sad smile. "I know."

**TO BE CONTINUED**

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_**Author's note:** What do you think of this chapter's developments? I'd love to hear your feedback, so leave a review!_

_Also, if you are curious to learn more about the backstories behind Peggy's children, check out my story "The Third Life of Steve Rogers," which I am also actively updating._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Agent Hill ushered Steve into the car waiting at the curb of Manhattan Headquarters. The clothes and personal items he had been given since awakening had been packed into a bag, along with the stack of books he had requested. Gabe was already waiting in the car with his own bag packed. A handful of agents got into a second car behind them, and the two cars pulled out into the lanes of traffic.

"Are they paying you enough for this?" Steve murmured to Gabe, so that the agents in the front seats wouldn't hear.

"You'd better believe it," Gabe whispered back, working to hide a grin. "Man, you are the best thing that ever happened to me." He stuck his fist out. Steve stared at it, puzzled.

"Fist bump, man, fist bump," Gabe said, and after another moment's hesitation, Steve bumped his fist against Gabe's. Apparently that was the right thing to do, because Gabe sat back in his seat, looking satisfied.

"So..." Gabe said they had ridden in silence for a few minutes. "Amnesia, huh?"

"Yeah," Steve said.

"How much did you lose?"

Steve stared out at the traffic moodily. "Everything."

"Must have been one heck of a blow to the head," Gabe said sympathetically. "I'm sorry, man. Any of it coming back?"

"Not so far."

After a short drive, everyone got out and loaded into a sleek military-style plane that the agents called a Quinjet, and within minutes they took off. It was a smooth, quiet ride, but the cockpit was sealed off and there were no windows in the back, so none of them could see where they were going. Hill had never mentioned the location of the Retreat, which probably wasn't an accident.

Steve was starting to realize that Nick Fury was possessed with an unusually abundant supply of paranoia. Was he afraid Steve would run again? He'd given Fury no reason to think that he would. And where did Fury think he would he run, and why? S.H.I.E.L.D. was generously providing him with what he needed to transition into this new time, and it made sense to take advantage of it. Just what was Fury so afraid of?

After several hours, they landed, and walked down the ramp into a clearing surrounded by a heavily wooded area. There was still an October chill in the air, and the deciduous trees were covered in red and orange leaves. They must not have gone south. The West, maybe? Or even Canada? Steve had never been able to travel beyond New York and New Jersey in his youth. His family couldn't afford it. His only travel had come courtesy of the Army, and it hadn't exactly been a vacation.

He settled into his room in the cabin, and his instruction began. Every day Gabe would teach him new things, assisted from time to time by the agents who also patrolled the property, did the cooking, and brought whatever supplies were needed. Steve began to learn how to use the computer. How to type. How to use a mouse. How to access the internet. How to navigate the many websites that Gabe kept insisting everyone used. It was all completely foreign to him, but he set his mind to learning as quickly as possible, although at times it was frustrating. There were other things to learn, too. Gabe showed him how to operate the television and the washing machine and the dishwasher. How to cook with a microwave. It was easier than using a stove, Steve thought, once he had figured out what buttons did what - he had never been much of a cook, and he had a feeling the microwave was going to change the way he ate for the better - but it was disappointing to discover there were some things that _couldn't_ be cooked in it. No raw meat. No fried eggs.

And no utensils. One day the microwave started to pop and spark almost the moment Steve turned it on. He panicked, and forgot what button to push to stop it. Gabe bounded across the room and yanked the door open. The sparking stopped.

"You can't leave the spoon in," Gabe explained, pulling it out with a hot pad.

Steve embarrassed himself almost daily with mistakes like that. It was actually a blessing that Gabe thought he was brain-damaged, because he showed an almost superhuman patience with Steve's ignorance. From time to time he would ask hopefully: "Is any of this coming back to you?" and Steve would shake his head. The agents who sometimes pitched in with the teaching, however, were not always so understanding, confirming for Steve that he'd made the right choice in requesting Gabe. And that Maria Hill had ten times the gumption of your average military grunt to agree to it.

In between his lessons, he went outside with Gabe and they tossed a baseball back and forth, or he read. They brought him a newspaper every day, and he was working his way through the books Hill had sent with him. He was especially eager to read about the end of the war. After a week at the Retreat, he had only a few chapters left in that book as he read in bed one night, when there was a knock on his bedroom door.

"Hey, man," Gabe said, poking his head through the door. "Come outside and look at this!"

Pulling on his jacket, Steve followed Gabe outside. Through the trees he could just make out the lights of the guard tower and the laser fence surrounding the property, but otherwise the night was very dark. There was no moon. The air was frosty; November had arrived.

"Look," Gabe said softly, pointing up.

Steve tipped his head back and gazed at the night sky. A broad swathe of brilliant stars stretched across the entire horizon. The air here was so clear and so dark, uncontaminated by city lights, that they could even see the misty veil of the Milky Way.

"Beautiful," Gabe breathed. "I've never seen them so bright."

_I have_, Steve wanted to say. The stars he'd seen in the _Valkyrie_, projected by Schmidt's energy cube... they'd looked more real than reality. Almost as if he could have stretched up his hand and touched them. He shivered, feeling the tip of his nose going numb in the cold November air, and suddenly an odd sensation shot through his body.

The _Valkyrie_.

Cold. Dark. Stars shining down from the top of the plane, but they weren't beautiful. They were _wrong_. Shining down from where they shouldn't be. And then they'd gone out, snuffed out like a candle. In a flash, Steve saw it again, as vividly as if he were there again: his own gloved hands gripping the controls. Forcing the plane down. The icy ground below rushing up to meet him. Peggy's tearful voice... the last voice he had heard before he fell to the earth. Before he had woken up in the silence of his icy tomb.

_You won't be alone,_ Peggy had promised him.

But he _had_ been alone, there in the dark. He still was.

Steve became aware that his heart was thudding rapidly in his chest. His breath came out in pants, making white puffs in the dim light. Gabe, unaware of what was happening, was still gazing up at the stars, enjoying his moment of peace.

_Calm down,_ Steve tried to tell himself. _It's over. You survived. You're safe. _

But he couldn't shake the images. He still felt the controls vibrating in his hands. Saw the hard ground rising up to meet him. He could almost, but not quite, remember hitting it. Suddenly horror shot through him: what if it happened again? What if anytime he got too cold, he would fall asleep, and wake up years or decades later, having lost everything all over again?

Steve knew he was panicking, knew he was being totally irrational. S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent him off with a whole stack of papers warning him about symptoms like this, although he hardly needed it; he had seen it in soldiers before, after battles. He himself had largely been spared the experience... until now.

He had to go inside, where it was warm. Now. He managed to say something to that effect to Gabe, and then he was turning to go back inside, trying but not quite succeeding to move at a dignified pace.

Gabe followed him in, shivering a little himself. "Shoulda brought a parka," he said, rubbing his hands together vigorously. "You want to make some coffee or something?" He didn't seem to notice Steve's panic. Somehow Steve managed to get out a _no thank you, I'm tired, goodnight_, without arousing Gabe's suspicion. Alone in his bedroom at last, he shut the door tight and kicked off his shoes. He laid down on the bed and wrapped all the blankets tight around him, but it was a long, long time before he felt warm again.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, but not for long. He dreamed of the energy cube, its hellish light washing across Schmidt's death's mask, until suddenly it wasn't Schmidt at all, but _Peggy_, and she was the one burning up, sucked into the pillar of light shooting up out of the plane and into the night sky, forever beyond his reach, and abruptly Steve woke up with a strangled cry, sitting bolt upright in bed, groping desperately for a shield that wasn't beside him.

He stayed awake, heart pounding and stomach churning, for the rest of the night.

In the morning, his eyes were dry and sore, and a kind of quiet despair had settled deep down in his chest. He thought he had moved past the worst of it, back in New York. He thought he was back to normal, more or less. Now he realized that he was not remotely out of the woods yet.

Despite his exhaustion, he did his best at his lesson that morning. Gabe was trying to show him how to attach files to an email. It didn't seem that complicated, but Steve was having trouble focusing, and he was feeling more than a little rebellious, too. Was this really something he'd have to know? He'd gone his whole life without knowing how to do something like this; why should he need it now? Finally, in frustration he told Gabe he had to take a break.

A run. A run had helped him, last time this happened. Steve pulled aside one of the agents and told him that he needed to go for a run, but Gabe could not see him doing it. The man nodded, understanding.

"We'll keep him in the cabin," he said. "We'll close the curtains."

Pulling on a sweatshirt, Steve went outside and began to run the dirt path that circled the property, just inside the laser fence. As before, he ran his heart out, hoping he would grow tired enough that he would be able to sleep that night. He felt okay as long as he was running; the uneven path, crossed with the occasional tree root or clump of rocks, forced him to concentrate so that he didn't trip. When he was done running, he went back in and tried to settle down to his lessons again.

Somehow he managed to get through the rest of the day. But at night, once again sleep eluded him. Hours later, with the cabin dark and silent as all the other occupants slept, he picked up his book about the war, hoping a little reading might help him relax and drift off. But when he got to the last chapter of the book, he read something that sent such a wave of shock through him that he sat bolt upright on his bed.

He leaned forward, frantically reading as fast as he could. It couldn't be... it couldn't. But there were photographs. Two entire cities, blasted to smithereens. Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Two hundred thousand people dead, maybe more. The historians weren't sure. A lot of the bodies were thought to be vaporized.

The Allies hadn't used the Hydra weapon Schmidt had intended for New York and Chicago and Boston, but they might as well have. The destruction was complete. The cities were nothing more than craters in the ground, littered with matchsticks. Thousands more had gotten sick in the days and weeks that followed. Steve's eyes darted all over the page, taking in the words in disbelief. Phrases like _radiation poisoning _and _cancer_ and_ birth defects_ leaped out at him.

Sickened, Steve wanted to stop reading, but he was compelled to go on. By the time he reached the end of the book, someone was stirring out in the kitchen. Steve got up, feeling clumsy and dull from lack of sleep, and got ready for the day.

Another day, another bout of staring at a screen, doing typing drills, forcing himself to do it the proper way he'd been shown, rather than pecking with two fingers the way he instinctively wanted to. Suddenly, Steve stopped in the middle of the task and looked over at Gabe.

"You know about Hiroshima and Nagasaki?" he asked.

Gabe blinked at the sudden change in subject. "You mean the cities we bombed in World War II?"

Steve had been half-afraid that the incident had been so long ago for everyone else that it had already been forgotten. "Yeah."

"Yeah, I heard about it."

"Well, what did you think?"

"I don't know," Gabe said, looking uncomfortable. "I never knew _what_ to think, when we studied it at school. I guess it was pretty awful. But..." He shrugged. "It ended the war, didn't it? That's what they said. At least the killing stopped."

Steve controlled his agitation with an effort. "Can we look this up?" he asked. "On the internet?" Maybe it wasn't as bad as the author of this particular book had made it out to be, he told himself. He'd found a couple places where his own experiences in the war had been contradicted by that book. Maybe there were more inaccuracies.

"Yeah, sure," Gabe said.

They found some websites that talked about it. But the more Steve learned about the bombings, the worse he felt. It wasn't just the number of deaths. It was the way they had died. Many had succumbed days or weeks after the explosions, not from injuries but from bizarre and gruesome symptoms. He kept thinking that it must have been like dying of mustard gas. Like his father had died. In agony. A slow, messy death.

Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore.

"I'm going for a run," he told Agent Reed tersely, and without waiting for any acknowledgment he left the cabin and started to run, trusting that Reed would keep Gabe out of sight from the windows. This wasn't going to be a casual jog.

He tore around the dirt track, trying for a speed at the utmost of his abilities, hoping it would stop him from thinking. Each time he passed the guard tower, he caught glimpses of the agents on duty leaning out the window, watching him. He was going so fast that whenever he leapt over an obstruction in the path, it felt more like flying than running. Once he jumped so high that he nearly hit a branch overhead, but he threw his fist out in plenty of time and the thick branch snapped off and embedded itself into the perimeter fence, lasers sparkling around it. The next time he passed the guard tower, one of the agents was on the phone with someone.

He ran. On and on and on, until even with his enhanced lungs, he was struggling to breathe properly. Still, he pushed on doggedly.

"Rogers! Hold up!" a voice called out, and finally, reluctantly, Steve slowed, spotting Agent Reed ahead of him on the trail.

"Director Fury wants to talk to you on video chat," Reed said when he got close enough.

Steve stood still, breathing hard. "What's that?" he asked.

"It's like a phone call, only you can see each other," Reed explained, ushering him down the path to the cabin.

The agents took him inside and parked him in front of the computer again. Gabe was escorted outside, shooting Steve a look filled with both confusion and concern. Steve pushed his hair off his forehead self-consciously and realized he was soaked in sweat.

Fury's picture was on the computer. Moving, looking at him expectantly.

"You're on," Reed said, nudging Steve. "Talk to him."

"Fury?" Steve said, looking all over the computer, trying to find the camera but not seeing anything like that.

"You're scaring the hell out of my agents, Rogers," Fury asked bluntly. "What's the problem?"

Oh, good. Directness. _That_ he could deal with.

"The problem," Steve said, "is that my country dropped atom bombs on a couple of populated cities!"

"Damn right we did," Fury said. "Ended the war, quick and clean. Mission accomplished."

Steve was shocked by his flippancy. "Do you have any idea how many people died?"

"Yeah, and how many of your compatriots did _they_ kill?" Fury shot back. "Hell, the Axis basically killed _you_. Gave it their best shot, anyway."

"They were _civilians_!" Steve said, voice rising. "We signed up for the risks we took! The people in Hiroshima and Nagasaki didn't."

"Hiroshima had a military base," Fury said pointedly. "Nagasaki was a strategic port."

"That must have been a big comfort to the families who watched fire rain down on them from the sky," Steve said.

"No one celebrated their deaths," Fury said. "We were just happy the war was over."

"But we could have won without doing that," Steve objected.

"The men on the ground at the time disagreed with that assessment," Fury said.

"The man on the ground was General Eisenhower, and _he_ said the bombings weren't necessary," Steve shot back. "He said Japan was going to surrender anyway."

"Eisenhower was overly optimistic," Fury said dismissively. "The realists won out, and it's a good thing, too."

"Eisenhower was a great man," Steve said firmly, "and if he said it wasn't necessary, then it wasn't."

"The word 'surrender' didn't even appear in the Imperial Japanese lexicon of the time!" Fury said impatiently. "Just how do you propose we should have gotten the job done _without_ killing a bunch of people?"

Steve knew his next words would be misconstrued as arrogance, but he had to say it anyway. "_I_ could have done it."

Fury snorted. "Well, maybe you could have. Maybe you and your Commandos could have sailed in, captured all the military leadership, and forced a surrender where no one else could. A nice little precision strike. But we didn't have you, did we? The rest of us just had to muddle on as best as we could without you. And the atom bomb was what we came up with. Howard Stark helped with that, by the way."

"I don't care what Howard Stark did. I crashed Schmidt's plane trying to stop something like this from happening!"

Fury's sigh sounded more like a growl. "Better them than us. We weren't the ones killing millions of our own civilians. We weren't the ones executing prisoners of war. If you do the math, you'll see that those atom bombs probably saved a lot more people than they killed."

Steve was horrified. "We don't _trade lives_!"

"You saw the concentration camps. You saw the London air raids. The Axis didn't play nice. Neither did we."

"Their poor choices can't justify ours," Steve said tightly.

"How in the hell can you be this naive after what you've seen?" Fury demanded.

Steve emphasized his next words. "It isn't naivety when you make your choices with both eyes open."

"Well, excuse me," Nick said coldly. "I only have one eye."

"You open up a can of worms like this," Steve said, waving the history book in front of the screen, "and where does it end? What's to stop it from happening again? What if other countries developed this same weapon?"

"They did," Fury said. "Practically every developed country has them now. That's what stopped it. When everyone has the weapon, no one does. If one country dared use it, everyone else would, and then there wouldn't be any prizes left to win, or people left to win it. So everyone has them and no one uses them. Things worked out just fine."

"I wouldn't exactly call that a comfort," Steve said.

"We don't invent weapons to _comfort_ people, we invent them to scare people straight," Fury said pointedly. "Isn't that why _you_ were invented?"

"Dr. Erskine never intended me to be a killing machine," Steve said with some heat. He dropped his book on the desk in disgust. "I guess the machines do that just fine on their own." He leaned closer to the screen. "Would you have done it, Fury? Would you have dropped the bombs? Even knowing what we know now?"

Fury fixed his intense gaze on Steve. "How long has it been since you slept, soldier?"

"_Would_ you?" Steve persisted.

"How long has it been since you slept?" Fury asked again loudly. "You look exhausted. Agent Wilson said she saw a light under your door the last two nights, all night long."

Steve paused. "I'm... having trouble again," he finally admitted.

"You're not yourself," Fury said.

"I am. This is myself," Steve objected, but he was uncomfortably aware that Fury was probably right. He felt like he was at the edge of his control.

"You need to get your act together. Stop blowing things out of proportion. Get some sleep."

Fury ended the call, and Steve let his shoulders sag in weariness and defeat. Didn't Fury know that if he could, he would?

**TO BE CONTINUED**

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_**Author's note:** I'd love to hear what you think!_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's note:** Thanks to Sage of Wind Dragons and Guest for your reviews! To answer a question, you will see Steve's reaction to 9/11, and soon. (I'm not sure if it happened in the MCU or not, but it happened in my story.) _

* * *

**Chapter 9**

The weeks went by at the Retreat. Steve was getting to where he could do some things on the computer without Gabe leaning over his shoulder anymore. There were stretches where he slept normally and felt fine, tackling each new discovery in his books and the newspapers with his usual judgment and prudence. Then it would happen again: a panic attack, triggered by something that reminded him of the Valkyrie, or even for no discernible reason at all. Always followed by insomnia. The exhaustion really did made him blow everything out of proportion, and when he found out yet another thing that he had always taken for granted that had been changed or lost while he slept in the ice, it would send him into a tailspin that took days to recover from.

The November days slipped past one by one, until one day Agent Wilson cooked a Thanksgiving dinner for all of them. The next day, Fury himself unexpectedly arrived at the Retreat.

Everyone else left the cabin, leaving the two of them alone. Fury slid a stack of papers across the desk.

"What's this?" Steve asked, picking it up and turning it toward him.

"A job offer," Fury said. "Contractor for S.H.I.E.L.D. You'd be a floater, not assigned to any particular team, working whatever missions we deem best suited for your particular skill set." He scrutinized Steve with his one good eye. "I don't anticipate sending you out anytime soon. You need more time to get things sorted out."

Steve didn't bother arguing with that assessment. Fury was right, and he knew it. He turned to the next page, and lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

"Is that the amount for...?" Steve asked uncertainly, pointing at the figure at the top of the page.

"For the year," Fury said. "What, you don't like it?"

"I don't even know what I'd do with that much money," Steve said frankly.

"It isn't as much as you think," Fury said. "There's been inflation. And it doesn't matter where in New York City you live; the rent is always too damn high. That right there is enough to live on comfortably."

Steve got the sense that his idea of living comfortably was probably not the same as Fury's. His stay at Manhattan Headquarters and even the more rustic setting of the Retreat had felt like living in the lap of luxury, compared to the "accommodations" at the front, not to mention the kinds of places he and his mother had lived in, growing up.

Fury scratched his chin. "Of course, you're welcome to stay here for the time being," he added, glancing around the cabin.

"I've always lived on my own," Steve said automatically. "And everyone here... watches me."

Fury nodded. "Agent Hill can point you to a few likely places near Manhattan Headquarters. It'll be good for you to live in the city where you grew up. Familiar surroundings, and all that. We'll try to keep you as anonymous as possible, publicly speaking, for the time being. You'll have all the privacy you want until you're ready to join us."

When he had gone through the papers and Fury had explained all the fine print, Steve signed. He couldn't really think of any reason why not. He had to have a job, and what else was he going to do? What else was he fit for? At least here, they understood his... unique situation. And S.H.I.E.L.D. had belonged to Peggy. It was clear to him that this organization was her answer to the horrors of the war, her life's work to keep the world safe from anything that threatened the peace. Now, when he was ready to go back to work, there would be Peggy's portrait in the lobby watching over him. Like a guardian angel.

His heart sank in disappointment. He didn't want to put Peggy up on a pedestal, distant and serene. He wanted her here in the room with him, giving him that slightly contemptuous look she gave him whenever she thought he was being too dramatic. He wanted her to be _real_.

You don't always get what you want.

Steve finished signing, and Fury straightened the papers and rose to leave.

"Fury?" Steve said, and Fury turned back for a moment.

"Thank you for helping me, sir," Steve said. "For saving my life. I'll... try to be worth your trouble."

Fury smiled slightly. "I have a feeling you will be," he said, and left.

* * *

Sharon was working at her desk at the Triskelion when her supervisor came by and told her Director Fury wanted to meet with her in New York right away.

This time, she didn't bother getting her hopes up on the way there. She wanted to believe that this time it really would be a transfer to Special Service, but she suspected otherwise. It had been more than a month since her trip to Winchester. Probably Fury just wanted her to talk to Aunt Peggy again and update her on how Rogers was doing.

"Agent 13," Fury said once they were alone in his office, as he sat back and studied her. "I'm transferring you to Special Service. You'll be based here in New York, reporting directly to Agent Hill."

Sharon's heart leapt in surprise and joy. Finally! More time in the field, and less time in the office. She'd get to travel more now. She'd be assigned missions that really mattered, instead of being stuck in supporting roles. Just what she'd always dreamed of.

She took a quick calming breath. "Thank you, sir," she said primly.

"Your first assignment," Fury said, "is to surveil a potential threat. He's about to move into an apartment in Manhattan. We've secured the apartment below his as a base. You'll be supervising a small team of agents there, watching him 24/7. He'll be moving in a few days from now, which gives you time to bug his place."

Fury tapped the screen on the wall, and a S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel file popped up. Sharon stared at it, confused.

"Steve Rogers?" she said blankly.

Fury looked at her levelly. "That's right."

"He's a potential _threat_?" Sharon repeated slowly, trying to reconcile Aunt Peggy's pleas to protect Rogers with this unexpected assignment.

"He's not entirely stable," Fury said. "That'll be part of your assignment. We'll need a psychological profile on him, continually updated. He's agreed to contract with us, but I'm not sending him out until I'm certain he can handle it. He's a black-and-white thinker just starting to realize that he's swimming in an ocean of gray. Captain America may have been the living embodiment of patriotism, but according to the SSR's internal files, he also had a reputation for being, shall we say, independent-minded. I need to be sure his loyalty lands on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s particular shade of gray."

Independent-minded? That was the way Aunt Peggy had always described him, too, but Sharon had never thought of it in terms of compromised loyalty. He was Captain America. He did what was right, nothing more or less.

"Hill has everything you need to get started," Fury said. "Keep close tabs on his mental state, make sure he doesn't go on the run. And Agent 13? I need you and your team to remain invisible. Rogers is protective of his privacy. He's trusting — too trusting — but he's also smart. I don't want you doing anything that could tip him off."

"Understood," Sharon said, but inside, she burned. She knew what that meant. She'd be limited to listening to mics, to watching him on camera. She wouldn't be sitting in an office anymore, but she'd sit in an apartment, day after day. Maybe follow him at a safe distance to make sure he didn't get into trouble, but there could be no interaction. All to keep an eye on someone she was only being assigned to because of who she was related to, not because she had earned it herself.

This was _not_ the kind of assignment she'd had in mind.

* * *

When Steve got back to New York City, winter was in full swing. The streets of Manhattan were half-clogged by a snowstorm, but several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents helped him get moved into his new apartment and then left him alone to get settled.

The first few weeks, Gabe came by once a day and went with him to run errands. S.H.I.E.L.D. had given Steve a generous stipend to get him started, and Gabe helped him learn how to use a bank card in the machines that gave him money out of his account. The same card also worked to pay directly for purchases at the shops, and then Steve had to learn how to use the card in a third way, too, by putting the numbers into his computer to pay his utilities. Gabe insisted the card was a great convenience, but it didn't feel that way to Steve as he struggled to keep it all straight. He ended up just paying with cash whenever possible. It was simpler.

It was strange, too, being paid by an employer before he had done any work, and Steve didn't like it. He made up his mind that he would get well as fast as he could, so that he could go to work and earn all of this. He did not like feeling dependent.

On the day he moved in, he met the elderly woman who lived across the hall with her little dog. He got into the habit of stopping by a regular basis to ask her if there was anything she needed him to pick up, since she was not very mobile. Her name was Pearl, and she was only a decade or so younger than him. At least that was what Steve had figured, doing the math, but the more he got to know her, the more he realized that was wrong. The experiences of her youth had not been much different from his, it was true, but then... she had kept on living. She'd lived through the 1950s. The 60s. The 70s... all of it. She'd lived through everything he'd missed. She'd accepted it, been changed by it. She was sweet, and he enjoyed her company, but it didn't really feel like she was part of his generation. She was an old woman and he was a young man, no matter what his birth date said.

And so he tried to get to know the younger people in his building. People his age who he sat by on the subway or passed in the library. It was hard to get them to make eye contact. They almost always had their mobile phones in their hands with their heads down, eyes intent on the screen, or else listening to nearly invisible devices tucked into one ear, oblivious to everything around them. Even when they didn't have their phones out, they tended to look down. He managed to start conversations with a few, but it was hard to understand some of the things they said. Their conversations were liberally sprinkled with slang or jargon that he had no point of reference for. He got into the habit of covering his confusion in the moment, and then as soon as they left, he wrote down every strange word he had heard to look up later.

Some of the words he _did_ understand, though, and he was hard-pressed not to be shocked by the vulgarities he heard so casually thrown around. At first he thought he had just chosen the wrong kind of people to talk to - it wasn't obvious who the respectable citizens were anymore, since everyone dressed so casually - but gradually he realized almost all the young people spoke that way. He tried not to judge them too harshly for it - clearly this was a new norm, and he was the one who was out of step - but despite his best efforts it did make him uncomfortable.

A few weeks after moving into his apartment, he had another panic attack, followed by a bad couple of days. He didn't dwell on it. Just push forward. They couldn't last forever. They couldn't outlast him.

* * *

Fury had said Rogers wasn't stable, that he wasn't fit for missions. But for the first few weeks of watching him, Sharon wondered just what Fury thought the problem was. Rogers seemed normal. He settled into his apartment easily enough in the beginning of December. He explored Manhattan on his own, going to the library and museums and bodegas, and he navigated the streets and subways with all the confidence of a born-and-bred New Yorker. Almost daily he went to some restaurant or another and would sit there long after he'd finished his coffee, sketching things on a notepad. He seemed quiet - definitely introverted - but he would make polite small talk with the various people he interacted with.

His place was easy to search. For a bachelor, Rogers kept things pretty neat - probably a habit established from his time in the Army — and he didn't buy very much stuff even though S.H.I.E.L.D.'s deposits were rapidly piling up in his bank account. A few clothes, a few household items, but that was it. Was it a subtle resistance to the idea of settling into a time that was not his own? Or merely a holdover of the Depression-era attitude of only buying what was strictly necessary? Sharon wasn't sure. She kept an eye on his computer usage, his library records and his purchases, and she let herself into his place whenever he went on one of his regular runs and methodically went down the checklist. Double-check that the bugs were well-hidden and still operational. Weave micro-mic fibers into the collars of his shirts, to make it easy to listen in from a distance when he spoke to people. Insert trackers in his shoes, since it was useless to try to follow him when he went on runs.

She would also go through drawers to see if she could find a pocket compass, something Fury had asked her to keep an eye out for. She never did find it, which meant that either he had hidden it well — unlikely, since he gave no indication he suspected he was being watched — or he always kept it on his person. And finally, she would flip through his notebooks and sketchbooks and take pictures of anything that stood out to her.

He didn't keep a traditional journal, but he kept multiple running lists. Lists of pop culture references he heard people make, which he looked up later on the computer. Lists of historical and current events that were mentioned in the morning newspaper or the evening news, which he read and watched faithfully every day. He looked up those things on the computer, too, or checked out books about them from the library. And he even kept a list of things he liked about living in this time: how large and nice and warm his apartment was, the foods he liked, the cleaner air, the dizzying variety of things available in the shops.

He did not keep a list of things he _didn't_ like about living in this time... but he didn't really need to. It all came out in his sketches, Sharon's first indication that all was not entirely well with Rogers.

The first one she saw was a sketch he'd made of the people sitting around him in a restaurant. Every single one of them had their heads buried in their cell phones. And he hadn't drawn a perfect reproduction of the scene, although he obviously had the artistic skill to do so, but had instead added a subtle distortion to both the architecture of the room and the faces of the people. Their eyes were glazed; they looked like zombies from the cover of some old issue of Tales of the Weird. There was a sketch of the blight in a neighborhood not far from his, with urbanites in designer clothing strolling past the homeless veterans clutching their cardboard signs. And a sketch of his TV with an avalanche of garbage falling out of the screen.

She knew from watching the video footage of the camera in his living room that he'd had a lot of trouble finding shows on the TV that didn't bother him. She didn't think he had figured out the ratings system yet, or knew how to block certain channels. For a while he'd just jump up and turn off the TV when something objectionable popped up, but after a few weeks he seemed to have given up. He didn't try to watch anything but documentaries and the news now... and even those sometimes seemed to distress him. A documentary he'd watched about modern family trends had triggered a flurry of internet searches for divorce statistics and single parenthood that had lasted for days.

Fortunately someone at S.H.I.E.L.D. had had the foresight to put a strong filter on his internet browsers, or he'd no doubt have stumbled across far worse things on his laptop.

The more of his sketches she saw, the more she began to notice that the list he was keeping of things he liked in this time sometimes had something of a tone of desperation to it. Like he was trying to convince himself that there was something _to_ like, but hadn't quite managed it.

It was only a couple of weeks after he moved in that he had his first episode, and finally Sharon realized what Fury was talking about. She showed up one morning to relieve Agent Jensen, who reported that Rogers had gotten up in the middle of the night and never had gone back to sleep.

"What did he do?" she asked.

"Just sat around the living room and read, mostly."

She didn't think much of it, but she watched Rogers throughout the day as usual and then left for the night. When she came back in the next morning, Agent Jensen reported that he hadn't slept at all that night, either.

A little concerned now, Sharon settled in to watch Rogers sitting at his computer. She could see him on the living room camera, as well as his computer screen mirrored onto her own laptop. There had been a front-page story about Iron Man today in the newspaper, and now Rogers was searching for the term on YouTube. It made sense that he was curious; after all, Iron Man was something like a successor to Captain America, Sharon figured.

She watched him watch Tony Stark's introduction to last year's World Expo. It had been quite a splash: fireworks, a dramatic entrance by Iron Man, a lot of scantily clad women dancing in the background. Rogers watched it all with a frown deepening between his eyebrows. Then YouTube helpfully started playing a related video. This time it was Tony Stark testifying on Capitol Hill about his armored suit, which Sharon remembered all too well, along with everyone else in America. Stark had all but given the finger to Senator Stern and the rest of the Armed Services Committee on national television. Rogers watched the whole debacle with widening eyes.

"My bond is with the people," Stark said directly to the cameras at the end, as he strolled jauntily out of the chambers, putting on his sunglasses and barely containing his glee at his own defiant performance. "And I will serve this great nation at the pleasure of myself. If there's one thing that I've proven, it's that you can always count on me... to pleasure myself."

Rogers shut down YouTube with an expression of disgust.

Later that day, after he'd done some sketching, he went out for a run. Sharon was a little surprised; after two days without sleep, he must be tired, super-soldier serum or not. But she took her chance to enter his apartment and take a look at his new sketch, keeping an eye on his tracker synced to her cell phone.

It turned out he had sketched Iron Man as a 12-inch-tall wind-up toy man wearing a suit of armor, surrounded and dwarfed by giants of men wearing tattered World War II-era Army uniforms. She didn't find it in Rogers' notebook, though, but crumpled up in the garbage. Guess he hadn't been proud of that one, although it was drawn beautifully.

He went a third night without sleep, and it was hard to see the look in his eyes the next morning: a kind of frantic fatigue, although he doggedly went about his routine like everything was normal. Sharon reported it to Maria Hill, who came over to Rogers' apartment to check on him. Hill had instructed Sharon not to listen in during her visits, although she was given a summary after Hill had consulted with a S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist and submitted a report. Symptoms: Flashbacks, insomnia, behavior avoidance. Diagnosis: Post-traumatic stress disorder. Hill had encouraged him to use his art to work through things, and to use exercise to help him sleep.

It was good advice, and Rogers followed it faithfully. But it couldn't stop his episodes from coming.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** Go ahead and leave a review! I'd love to hear what you think._


	10. Chapter 10

_**Author's note:** Merry Christmas, everyone! Hope you have a great holiday. _

* * *

**Chapter 10**

Christmas came. Steve did what he had always done for Christmas since his mother had died, and started the day by visiting the gravesite of his mother and father at Holy Cross Cemetery. He had braced himself for the fact that the small, plain headstone with both their names inscribed would be weathered and undecorated, having gone unvisited for so many decades, but for some reason it had not even occurred to him that his own monument would be there beside theirs. His was much larger and nicer and seemed to be well-maintained, but it wasn't decorated with anything other than the standard flag for veterans. There was no one left alive who remembered him, either. He brushed away the snow on his parents' headstone and left a pair of poinsettias before leaving.

As usual, he had found a nearby charity that needed volunteers on Christmas Day. This year it was a veterans home that wanted people to serve Christmas dinner and keep company with the residents who didn't have family nearby to visit. He got to know several elderly veterans who had survived battles he remembered, and he spent hours listening to their stories. They were surprised by his interest, and that he knew so much about the time. He didn't tell them his story; it was too unbelievable, for one thing, and he wasn't sure he wanted the attention that was sure to follow.

Once he had been quietly flattered by the interest strangers had shown in him as the star of films and comic books, back before he had ever served a day in combat. He wasn't so sure he wanted that kind of scrutiny now. He wasn't himself. He wasn't Captain America, either. Whoever or whatever he was now, he needed time to figure it out before he could face any publicity.

Then again, maybe his celebrity days were over for good. So far no one had seemed to recognize him. He'd found Captain America materials on the internet, but maybe no one was looking it up anymore. It had all been so long ago. The world had forgotten him, and right now he was more relieved about that than regretful.

* * *

Sharon sat surrounded by the joyous noise of Uncle Mike's family at his home near Philadelphia, enjoying her Christmas dinner despite the fact that her parents were at the other end of the country visiting her brother this year, while she had come to Uncle Mike's out of a need to stay close to work.

Compared to her own smaller family, this house felt like it was packed to the rafters; in addition to Uncle Mike and Aunt Tien, all four of their children and their spouses had come for the holidays, plus all of _their_ children. Sharon had lost count of how many grandchildren there were now — 15 or 16? — with the oldest in high school and the youngest probably just starting school. Sharon had been seated in the dining room, right at the seam between the table for the grownups and the table for the teenagers, which seemed apropos — she had always felt very in-betweeny in Mike's family, being younger than her cousins and yet older than her cousins' children. At least they hadn't relegated her to the little kids' table, where someone was upsetting their drink or knocking food onto the floor every five minutes, she thought with amusement.

They had just finished their feast, with everyone looking duly ridiculous wearing the paper hats that had come in their Christmas crackers, even the grown-ups. "First we spend Thanksgiving celebrating our journey to the New World to _escape_ the redcoats. Then we turn around and do a British Christmas," Uncle Mike had explained to Sharon with a grin when she had first come in and saw the table loaded with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and pigs in a blanket, and his youngest son Clint had quipped, switching effortlessly between the two accents: "God bless America, and God save the Queen!"

Now Sharon's cousin Natty, Mike's oldest, was going around pouring sparkling cider for everyone for a Christmas toast before they served the pudding. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman Sharon had ever seen, having inherited many of her Grandma Peggy's best features, plus the almond-shaped eyes and small white teeth of her Vietnamese mother. She had been a ballet dancer in her youth, and even in middle age retained that same willowy grace.

Uncle Mike picked up his glass and cleared his throat to get everyone's attention. "To absent family," he said once everyone had quieted down, and an uncharacteristic frown deepened between his eyebrows for a fleeting moment before he took a sip and the rest of the family followed suit.

He must miss his twin, Sharon guessed. "Do you ever get the whole family together all at once?" she ventured to ask into the relative quiet.

"With Sarah's family, too?" Aunt Tien asked. She still had a noticeable accent, although she had moved to America as a young woman.

"It's pretty chaotic when we do," Uncle Mike said, a smile lighting up his face again in a flash. "She has an even bigger family than ours."

"Drumroll please!" Sharon's cousin Sammy called out, a match hovering over the Christmas pudding, and as the youngest children enthusiastically drummed their hands on the table, she lit up the pudding and everyone ooohed and aaahed obligingly.

The pudding and the trifle were served up, the richness of which was almost a punishment after such a big dinner. Hoping to give her stomach a chance to settle before attempting to eat any more, Sharon turned to Roger, the oldest of her cousins' children, and struck up a conversation, asking what his plans were after graduation this coming spring.

"I'm applying for an internship at Stark Industries," he answered readily, putting down his fork.

"Oh, really? In what?"

"Computer hacking." Sharon frowned a little, and he quickly added, "The white hat kind."

"Oh. I bet that's pretty competitive."

He nodded seriously. "It is. I'm really stressed out about it, to be honest."

"Well, if you don't make the cut, you could always come to S.H.I.E.L.D.," Sharon suggested. "We need people like that too."

Roger smiled a little. "S.H.I.E.L.D. is your calling, Aunt Sharon. Stark Industries is mine."

He spoke with such seriousness - almost a certainty coloring his words - that she was a little taken aback.

"Why, what's the difference?" she asked.

Roger took a long moment to answer. "It isn't just the hacking. I'm interested in the field of artificial intelligence," he said at last. "Tony Stark's on the cutting edge of that."

"Is he?" Sharon asked curiously.

"Sure, how do you think he runs his suits?"

She raised her eyebrows. "You think you're going to get your hands on an Iron Man suit?"

Roger laughed. "As an intern? Not likely. But I don't care about the hardware anyway," he added. "It's the software that interests me."

"I bet you can get that internship," Sharon said reassuringly. "And maybe you'll get to see your Uncle Harrison at Stark Tower sometimes when you go to work." She glanced up the table, where her cousin Harrison was deep in some discussion with Uncle Mike.

"I doubt it," Roger said. "Last time I asked him what Happy Hogan had him doing, he said he'd tell me... but then he'd have to kill me." He laughed easily.

"How about you?" Sharon asked Max, Roger's younger brother who was sitting across from her. "Do you know what you're doing yet? I guess you still have a few years to figure it out."

"A few," Max agreed. "But I know what I'm after. I'm going to study adoption law."

"Adoption law, huh?" Sharon repeated. "What gave you that idea?"

Max grew serious. "Because I have a family like this," he said quietly, "and I hate to think of other kids who won't." He cleared his throat. "There's a shortage of people qualified to help kids get placed. My Aunt Maggie back in England is already facilitating adoptions all over Europe. I wanted to be a part of it, too."

Sharon caught the eye of Janet, sitting next to Max, and said, "How about you? Planning to run for president of the United States?"

She was only joking, but to her surprise Janet answered readily: "Nope. I'm going to study medicine. Probably specialize in the nervous system. I'd like to help paralyzed people get their mobility back."

Sharon blinked a few times. "_How_ old are you?"

"Thirteen."

What was it with the Carter children? Sharon had noticed it more and more over the last few visits she'd had with them: it was like they hit puberty and suddenly became as self-possessed as an adult. They all seemed to have inherited Aunt Peggy's fierce independence, yes, but it was more than that. More than anyone else she knew, the Carters were all driven by a rock-firm sense of _purpose_. They knew exactly what they wanted from life and they were relentless in pursuing it. Was it something about the way they were raised? Or genetic predisposition?

"Is there anyone at this table who _doesn't_ know what they're doing when they grow up?" Sharon wondered out loud.

"Time's a valuable thing, Aunt Sharon," Roger said briefly. "Waste not."

By now everyone had finished their dessert, and some of the grownups began clearing the table while others took the younger children outside to keep them entertained and out of the way. Sharon started to help carry dishes into the kitchen, but then Uncle Mike pulled her aside to a quieter part of the house.

"So how is our old friend doing?" he asked.

Sharon had told Aunt Peggy about being assigned to Captain Rogers, and had already called her a couple of times since then to report on Rogers' doings. She didn't exactly have permission from Fury to be doing that, and she felt a little guilty about doing the double-agent routine - on her very first solo assignment, no less - but not guilty enough to stop. Aunt Peggy couldn't possibly put this information to bad use; her interest in Rogers was clearly personal.

And so, willingly, Sharon pulled out her phone and showed Uncle Mike the photo Agent Delgado had taken with a telephoto lens of Steve Rogers visiting the cemetery that morning. He looked at it in silence for a long moment.

"You know, we usually decorate those graves," he said at last, handing Sharon her phone back. "For Mom."

"Not this year?" Sharon asked.

He shook his head. "We had a feeling he would go. Didn't want to run into him."

"Why not? Maybe he would like to meet you."

Uncle Mike was a long time answering. "It's Mom's wish."

And he left it at that, going over to help Aunt Tien set up some board games for the older grandkids. Sharon ended up joining them, and pretty soon they were all laughing and talking animatedly as they played, so that she gradually forgot how sorry she was that she didn't get to see her own parents and brother this year. Mike's family was always welcoming to her, and all things considered, it had been a pretty good Christmas.

Later, when she was walking down the hall on the way to the bathroom, she happened to overhear Uncle Mike's voice faintly through the wall as she passed his bedroom.

"I know, Mom, I know," she heard him say in a placating tone. "I feel the same way. But it's only this year. Next Christmas he'll be with Nat."

She assumed at first that he was talking about Captain Rogers - she knew Mike would pass along to his mother the update she'd given him - but what did that have to do with her cousin Natty? Why would she of all people even meet Captain Rogers, much less spend a holiday with him?

She must have misunderstood. Uncle Mike must have been talking about someone else.

* * *

After Christmas passed and January went by, Sharon became familiar with Rogers' pattern. Several weeks of good days, followed by two or three bad days, filled with increasingly desperate attempts to make himself sleep. Sometimes he ran, and sometimes he went to the boxing gym he'd joined and took his frustrations out on a punching bag. Maria Hill checked up on him from time to time.

One of his worst bouts came after he stumbled across a reference to 9/11 in the newspaper and then spent hours researching it online. Sharon felt more than a little distress of her own, watching Rogers watch the old video footage of the Twin Towers coming down with a horror-stricken expression on his face. The next day he checked out a book from the library about the Patriot Act, and Sharon noted with a little confusion that it seemed to disturb him as much as the attacks themselves had. He read the book straight through in one day, and the next day, after yet another sleepless night, he'd called up Fury and started a heated discussion that started off with the accusation: "You told me we weren't at war anymore!" and ended with a barrage of pointed questions about exactly how many civic rights had been given away in the aftermath of the attacks, and at what cost. It had ended with Fury telling Rogers with some impatience to calm down and go get some sleep before hanging up perfunctorily, and in response Rogers slammed down the phone with such uncharacteristic rage on his face that Sharon was taken aback.

He never succumbed to inactivity. Even on his worst days he would still get out of the apartment and stick to his routines. But on those days it was clear from the wounded-dog expression on his face and his total disinterest in striking up conversations with people that he was only going through the motions.

One day, he did something new and took public transportation all the way to Brooklyn. Intrigued, Sharon followed him, being careful not to be seen. Brooklyn was his home turf, she knew. He'd lived here since he was a baby, right up until the moment he left to join the Army. Rogers walked up and down the snowy streets, stopping from time to time to study various buildings. She had a feeling things probably didn't look very familiar to his eyes.

On a hunch, she pulled out her phone and started Googling the addresses he was pausing at, along with search terms like "1920" or "1930," the decades of his childhood and youth. She got lots of interesting photos. Little corner shops marked with big signs that read "Luncheonette: Drugs, Candy, Soda" or "Victoria Hatters." Places to get suits pressed. Muddy Brooklyn streets being paved with brick by Irish immigrant workers. Sharon looked up at that, curious; Rogers' parents had been Irish immigrants. Had his father taken part in that project? But of course the bricks had long ago been replaced by asphalt, and all the charming little shops had been replaced by sprawling big-box stores. Even Ebbets Field was now gone, and towering apartment buildings had taken its place.

After he got back home, he sketched. And the next chance she got, Sharon flipped through his notebook and saw that he'd made a large sketch of his old neighborhood. Half of it was drawn in the past, and half in the present day. The past side was drawn in clean and airy lines, while the present day was drawn with thick strokes that made it look dark and soulless. It wasn't hard to see what he thought of the changes.

A few days later Agent Rodriguez reported that Rogers had bought himself a suit and tie. That night he had another bad night, his first in several weeks... but in the morning, when Sharon was on duty, he got up anyway and went to Mass in his new clothes, something he'd never done before. Sharon took it as a hopeful sign: if he could take comfort from worship, or even become a part of a church community, maybe it would help with his symptoms. She didn't go inside herself; churches were some of the hardest places to blend in, since there were always people on the lookout for visitors to welcome, but she waited outside and listened in. It sounded like a nice service, and afterward she heard a woman talking to Rogers, asking him about himself. They chatted for a few minutes, and then she heard Rogers ask the woman: "Is the service always like that?"

"Like what?" the woman asked.

"_Backwards_," Rogers said. "The priest facing us instead of God. Everything in English."

"Oh, that?" The woman sounded surprised. "Haven't you ever been to a Novus Ordo service?"

"I... guess not," he said, sounding a little stunned.

"Well, they're everywhere. I don't know how you avoided it so long."

Sharon tipped her head back and blew out a sigh. She was Anglican herself, like her parents, but she'd heard her Catholic friends talking about this. Something they'd changed decades ago to make the service more accessible. A lot of Catholics liked it, but a lot of traditionalists didn't, believing that the beauty of the Latin Mass had been lost.

_Great,_ she thought. _We can't even get church right for him._

Rogers got back on the subway, headed in the direction of his apartment. Looking at his hunched shoulders as he stared moodily out the window, Sharon wasn't holding her breath about his chances of sleeping tonight. She was starting to get a feel for the kinds of things that set him off. Watching him from the other end of the car, she got to wondering if maybe it was possible to head off one of his episodes once it started brewing. If they could distract him somehow, or break into his solitude... Impulsively, she called Agent Hill and asked her just that.

Hill agreed that it was worth a try, and so Rogers had hardly walked through the door of his apartment when Hill called him and asked him if an agent could pick him up and bring him in for some training. Pretty soon a S.H.I.E.L.D. car came and picked him up. Sharon waited patiently in the lobby, and a few minutes later another agent pulled up in another car, and took her too. Fury had asked her to come in and make a report while Rogers was occupied.

The car didn't take Sharon to Manhattan Headquarters, but to the driving range S.H.I.E.L.D. maintained on the outskirts of the city. Fury met her as soon as she walked through the door and led her up to the rooftop, where they had a good view of the driving range. Hill was down below, showing Rogers a variety of vehicles and, presumably, explaining to him the changes in technology over the decades.

"So what's the problem with him, really, Agent 13?" Fury asked, hands on hips as he watched Rogers below starting up a Jeep, with Hill in the passenger seat. "Is it the post-traumatic stress, or is he just having trouble dealing with the culture shock?"

"I think they're feeding off each other," Sharon said. She'd had a lot of time to think about this. "It's a vicious cycle. Sometimes he takes things in stride, but a lot of times..." She trailed off.

"He hates our world, Fury," she finally said, too weary and frustrated to try to sugar-coat it. "He died to save us, or at least he meant to, and now we've gone and spoiled everything he tried to save."

"Good," Fury said firmly. "The sooner we can brush the bloom off that pathological idealism of his, the better. He needs to wake up and join the real world."

He left the rooftop to take a phone call and left Sharon alone. She watched Rogers maneuver the Jeep around the obstacle course for a while, and then, glancing around to make sure she was really alone, she called Aunt Peggy. It was a little early in the morning in England, but she answered. After the pleasantries, Sharon filled her in on Rogers' recent progress.

"We disappoint him, Aunt Peggy," she concluded, and she couldn't help but feel it as a personal failing, although she knew it wasn't rational. "He hates what we've done with our freedom."

"He doesn't hate us," Aunt Peggy said calmly. "Darling, it's always been hard for older generations to accept the changes in the world. I know something of what he's feeling - I think all of my generation does - but the rest of us were eased into the changes gradually. We had time to accept them, time to see it all in perspective. Time to see the good as well as the bad. He'll get there eventually."

"It's just that this is really hard to watch," Sharon said. "He's so unhappy. I think he thinks he doesn't belong here."

Aunt Peggy took a long time to answer, and when she did, she sounded tearful. "Whether he knows it or not, he does belong here. When he left me... when he left _us, _when he went missing_..._ it was hard to accept, but I see now that it happened for a purpose. This time is when he's needed most." She took in a shaky breath, and then spoke more firmly. "Right now he's paying a price. But if you know him as I do, Sharon, you know that he wouldn't hesitate for a second to pay _any_ price, once he knew what was at stake."

"What's at stake?" Sharon repeated, trying to understand. Was Aunt Peggy having a memory lapse?

"He's a shield," Aunt Peggy said. "And he'll protect us. Whatever it takes."

**TO BE** **CONTINUED**

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_**Author's note:** Feel free to leave a review!_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Steve Rogers didn't come home from the driving range empty-handed. Maria Hill slipped up to the roof at the end of his driver's training to tell Sharon and Nick Fury that Rogers had actually cracked a smile when she had him try the Harley Davidson, and that he was a natural rider.

"He looks like he was born on two wheels," Hill had said with a smile.

Fury, without a moment's hesitation, told her to send it home with him.

Agent Hill shot Fury a slightly amused look. "Not only does Rogers not have a current drivers license," she pointed out wryly, "but he has _never_ had one. He just told me he learned how to drive in the Army."

"Then run up to Records and have them print one out for him," Fury said impatiently. "Guy looks like Evel Knievel out there, I'm pretty sure he can handle the interstate."

"What birth date am I supposed to put on it?" Hill shot back.

Fury opened his mouth to retort, then paused, his brow suddenly creasing in a rare moment of hesitation.

"If you take his age," Sharon supplied, attracting both of their attention, "and count backward, it would be 1984."

Hill looked surprised. "Is he really that young?"

"From 1918 to 1945 is 27 years," Sharon confirmed. "Except he went missing a few months before his birthday, but of course he's been here a few months now," and then she added after another moment's thought, "although he hasn't reached his actual birthday yet — that's July 4th — so it really depends on how you count it..." She suddenly realized both Fury and Hill were giving her odd looks while she rattled on, and cleared her throat sheepishly. "Anyway. He's 27, more or less."

* * *

Rogers began to take the motorcycle out on the weekends, maneuvering it smoothly through the Manhattan traffic until he got out of the city proper and onto more unobstructed roads. Sharon followed him in an unmarked company car with the help of a tracker as he explored, and she sometimes caught sight of his expression when he rode that motorcycle: rare but unmistakable flashes of pure, unadulterated joy. She'd never seen that particular emotion from him before.

Sharon was surprised by how much he liked it. She had assumed that the motorcycle was just part of the Captain America persona, something the artists and filmmakers had added to his public image to make him look cool. In reality, it was a genuine interest of his. She was starting to realize that she didn't have a firm grasp of what was fiction and what was truth when it came to Steve Rogers.

Curious, she started to read biographies about him when she was on night watch. Eventually she asked Hill if she could have his internal file from his SSR days, and that turned out to be even more useful. It had more than a few surprises in it. Sharon had always assumed that the SSR had immediately recognized his potential when he was first rejected by the Army and ushered him straight into the ranks of candidates for Project Rebirth. But it turned out that Rogers had applied for the Army, not once, but _five_ _times_, each time under a different home address. The future Captain America, forging papers. He was that desperate to fight. It was why he had come to Dr. Erskine's attention.

And it got even better. Sharon had often heard the story of his rescue of the 107th infantry, heroically charging in and single-handedly saving a lot of men who had been given up for dead. Captain America's first big moment on the world's stage.

Turned out, he'd been acting against orders. Upon his return after the successful completion of his mission, Colonel Phillips had given the order retroactively to save face. Sharon laughed out loud, reading it. Captain America, lauded for his patriotism, loyalty and dedication to duty, was a _rebel_. And what could be more American than that? He had his own moral compass, and he would follow it no matter the cost. Even if it meant breaking rules or disobeying orders. She saw the truth in a sudden flash of insight. No wonder Fury had seemed worried the day he'd given her this assignment. It wasn't just a waiting game for Rogers to recover from his trauma. Fury was actually afraid that he wouldn't be able to control this man even when he was stable.

Sometimes it was hard to reconcile the contrast between the half-broken man she saw before her and the towering figure she read about in the history books. But then she would catch a glimpse of what was hidden inside.

One February night Rogers was waiting at the platform for the train after spending an hour at a restaurant in the usual way, eating and then sketching. It was late, and some of the people waiting around on the platform looked... less than savory. Sharon, hanging back at a safe distance and well-disguised with a dark wig, was grateful for the comfort of both a gun and a taser rod tucked into her waistband under her jacket, just in case she needed to protect herself or Rogers. And then she laughed at herself for the thought. As if Rogers needed her protection from any petty mugger.

One of the more unpleasant-looking men loitering around the platform wandered around aimlessly until he slowed to a halt, staring at a woman not far from Sharon. He said something to her that Sharon didn't quite catch. The woman looked at him, startled, and then looked away again, swallowing nervously.

The man said something again, gesturing vigorously with his hands, but the woman didn't look up. Sharon edged a little closer, wanting to listen in and evaluate the threat. Persistently, the man kept tossing out comments at the woman. Some of it sounded vaguely lewd. Some of it made no sense at all. The woman didn't meet the man's eyes, trying her best to ignore his behavior, and Sharon shifted her weight, growing uncomfortable and wishing the guy would just move along. Something about his eyes did not look quite right.

He didn't move along. Instead, he slouched closer to the woman and started talking even louder. Now that she could hear him more clearly, Sharon realized that he was definitely being lewd. The woman stared at the ground, cheeks flushed, and clutched her purse more tightly. She was alone, and she obviously had no idea what to do.

Sharon longed to intervene, but knew she could do nothing to draw attention to herself, not with Rogers within sight. She looked over at a man in a suit standing near her. He had glanced over at the developing situation a couple of times, but showed no signs of getting ready to take any action on the woman's behalf. Instead, he was now keeping his eyes fixed firmly on his tablet. Everyone else on the platform seemed equally oblivious, although they had to be noticing what was happening. Sharon was irritated, and yet she couldn't quite blame them, either. Once, she had seen a man intervene in a situation like this, only to be roundly scolded by the victim for not minding his own business. Not to mention the unpleasantness that would follow if the harasser got violent and the police had to be called. No wonder no one wanted to step in. He might even be armed. Sometimes the crazies were.

Sharon glanced back over at Rogers, and started when she realized he had pushed off from the pillar he was leaning against and was walking straight over to the harasser with a purposeful gait. He came right up to the pair, inserting himself smoothly between them, and looked the guy straight in the eye.

"Stop," Rogers said, his deep voice carrying clearly across the platform.

Nervous, Sharon ducked her head slightly and put a hand up to hide her face, not wanting Rogers to get a good look at her. She'd never been this close to him before. She peeked at him through her fingers. His face was hard, and he suddenly looked threatening in a way he never had before. There were days at a time when Sharon almost forgot he was a super soldier, but this was definitely not one of those times. Her mind raced, wondering what to do. Could she somehow stop this from escalating? Fury wouldn't like it if Rogers made a public ruckus, no matter what the cause. It wasn't exactly the ideal way to reintroduce Captain America to society, and the timing was all wrong, anyway. He still wasn't ready for duty.

The man got up in Rogers' face, cutting loose with a voluble stream of vulgarities, insults and threats. Every muscle tense, Sharon reached behind her and rested a hand on the handle of her taser rod. That guy was clearly not in his right mind. She wasn't sure if it was drugs or mental illness, but no sane person would show that much hostility to someone who was clearly bigger and stronger than him. And Rogers was just standing there, calm as a summer's day, taking the abuse but not backing up a single inch.

The scene was attracting attention. The others waiting for the train were looking over, some nervous about what was brewing, some merely curious.

The guy kept yelling. He call Rogers a punk and a snitch. A cracker and a racist. Then he added a couple more epithets that made some of the bystanders gasp. A teenage boy standing near Sharon, laughing derisively, pulled out his phone and held it out, ready to start recording. Thinking quickly, Sharon swiftly walked past him, bumping his elbow and sending the phone skittering across the concrete.

"I'm so sorry," she said quickly, meeting the kid's glare with an apologetic glance, and she stooped to pick up the phone, contriving to pop the battery cover off as she did so. Pretending to be as slow and clumsy as she could, she handed the phone, the battery and the cover to the kid in pieces, ignoring his dirty looks, and then she glanced over at Rogers.

He took one step forward, getting uncomfortably close to the screaming guy. For the first time, his aggressor paused in his tirade, and instinctively took a step back. Rogers immediately took another step forward, and the guy backed up again. A look of fear wandered across his face, as if even through the fog of his impediments he was beginning to realize he might have made a mistake.

"I said, stop," Rogers repeated.

A sudden hush swept over everyone watching. The guy stared at Rogers, anger and doubt warring on his face, until finally, he lowered his gaze, turned, and wandered away, faking a defiant kind of devil-may-care attitude in his body language as he left.

Sharon relaxed her shoulders, feeling the tension drain away. All the people watching began to look back down at their phones. The woman who had been harassed closed her eyes for a moment, looking intensely relieved. Rogers looked back at her and met her eyes for a moment, and she nodded silently, as if to say "thank you." Satisfied, Rogers put his hands in his pockets and went back to leaning against his pillar.

Taking a deep breath, Sharon felt her heart rate begin to go back down. Cautiously, she looked back at Rogers, and tried to contain her amazement.

Fury had spoken of Rogers' black-and-white thinking as a liability, something to be scrubbed away at the earliest opportunity. But Sharon felt a sudden rush of shame sweep over her. Rogers hadn't worried about what would happen to him, or how he would look in front of everyone, or whether some recording of the event would get put online and go viral, where his actions could be taken out of context or misconstrued in the glaring heat of the public stage. He was familiar enough with the internet now that he must have known of the phenomenon and the havoc it could wreak in someone's life. Instead, he had simply done the right thing, no other considerations required, while the rest of them had stood around, dithering. Hoping the problem would just go away.

That was when Sharon realized: our world of gray has made cowards of us all.

She assumed that Rogers wouldn't sleep that night. He must have been shaken by the encounter. But as she watched him go back to his apartment, she was surprised to see that he looked completely at peace. He went to bed at the normal time, and in the morning he began his morning routine looking well-rested and almost happy. Almost as if the encounter had helped him more than hurt him.

Sometimes he could surprise her like that.

* * *

April came, and there came a few warm days that got everyone in the city to come out in their short sleeves, hopeful that another New York City winter was over at last. Steve was more than ready to join them.

Things had been better lately. It had been four weeks now since he'd had an episode, the longest he had gone yet. He was cautiously hopeful that maybe the worst was over. Maybe he was finally making progress. And lately, he'd been thinking a lot about his future.

In some ways, as strange as it seemed, he missed the war. He missed having a reason to get up every morning, missed the sense of purpose that had driven him day by day. But he was starting to realize that even if his "accident" had never occurred, he still would have lost that purpose. The war would have ended. He would have gone home along with all the other soldiers, and he would have had to find something to do with his life.

Once he had had a clear picture of his future, or at least what he hoped would be his future. He had long ago made up his mind that once the war was over, he would pursue Peggy. To England, to America, it didn't matter. He would have made her his sweetheart, if he could, and then his wife. Family, stability... everything he had ever wanted.

That dream was now dead in the water. Instead he was stuck here, by turns obsessing over the past and just trying to survive moment by moment in the present. His future was a vast blank space, and that worried him.

He knew it was past time for him to accept reality: Peggy was lost to him. She had been precious and unique, but she was gone. There was no going back. Maybe the best way to honor her memory was to stick to his original plan. Find someone else to settle down with.

A part of him strenuously resisted the thought. He had some inkling that maybe he would never really be over Peggy, that she had left such an impression on his soul that no woman could possibly live up to her memory. But there was another part of him that could not help but notice when he passed a pretty woman on the street. They looked at him now, in a way they never had before his transformation. Sometimes they talked to him, and he couldn't help but wonder whether things might proceed past small talk with some of them if he only made an effort. He could admit it to himself: he was lonely.

He didn't even have any friends, not really. Maria Hill came to see him sometimes and was unfailingly kind, but it was her job to check up on him. It had been several months now since he had spoken to Gabe. At some point Steve had deliberately chosen to stop calling him with questions about all the new things he was learning, realizing that he was never going to adjust to the modern world and become independent if he leaned on Gabe too much for help. That decision — combined with the sporadic bad episodes that tended to leave him totally disinterested in socializing until it had run its course — meant that the friendship had died a natural death. And while he still checked on the elderly Pearl next door from time to time, and occasionally visited the veterans down at the nursing home, they were acquaintances that barely skimmed the surface. He needed something of substance, something with depth.

Maybe if he belonged to someone, it would fill in the hole in his heart. Maybe it would help with his symptoms. If he got well enough, Fury would let him go to work and earn his wages, and then he really would be back to normal.

Other people got over people and met new people. How many times had Bucky gotten over some girl or other? Each time a relationship had fallen apart, Bucky would mope around for a few days or even a few weeks, and then suddenly he'd be putting on a suit and going out to the dance club and coming back with a new pretty girl on his arm, all smiles, like nothing had happened. Why couldn't Steve do that? It had been five months now. Bucky never would have waited that long to move on.

That empty future yawned before him like a chasm with no bottom, but Steve knew he had to steel himself for the jump and find out what was waiting for him.

_I can do this_, he told himself firmly. _I can do this._

**TO BE CONTINUED**

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_**Author's note:** I would love to know what you think! Please leave a review below._


	12. Chapter 12

_**Author's note:** Thanks to sofiarose613, PrimeReader and the various Guests for your reviews! Always nice to know someone's reading my work._

* * *

**Chapter 12**

It was Saturday night, and Rogers was looking at the phone book again. Sharon hadn't even realized they still made them, but he'd found one somewhere, and he'd been looking at it off and on a lot lately. The feed from the camera wasn't clear enough for her to see the text on the page, and unfortunately he never left the book open when he left his apartment, so she couldn't see what he was looking at that way, either. Might be residential numbers, might be the advertisements. He never called anyone after he looked at it, so Sharon was at a loss. She wished he would just look everything up on the internet like a normal person, since it was a simple matter for her to look at his browsing history. He was getting pretty proficient at using the computer for some things, but at other times he reverted to the old ways, whether out of stubbornness or because he just didn't know everything the computer could do, she was never quite sure.

He shut the phone book and went into his bedroom. After a minute, she heard the sound of a shower. Sharon frowned. He'd showered that morning, after his run. Was he planning to go out? She hurried to the closet and chose a wig and an evening outfit, just in case.

Her guess turned out to be right. When he came back into the living room, he was wearing a button-up shirt and tie. He put on his shoes, pulled on his jacket, and left. Sharon waited the appropriate amount of time for him to make it down the stairs and get ahead of her, and then she slipped out and followed him.

He took the subway and got off a few stops later. There were plenty of restaurants and shops open late here, and the sidewalk was well-lit and crowded with Saturday revelers. He walked half a block down and then stopped at an area of the sidewalk that was cordoned off with ropes. A small crowd of chatting, laughing people were waiting to get into a nightclub called The Flamingo, and to Sharon's surprise Rogers got in the line, too.

He'd never done anything like this before. Intrigued, Sharon leaned against a shop not far away, pulling out her phone and pretending to talk into it while watching him out of the corner of her eye.

He stood there a little awkwardly, watching the other people who had all come with groups of friends. He looked totally out of place, standing there alone, and Sharon's heart went out to him. He hadn't dressed right for the occasion, either.

"Ditch the tie," she whispered.

He couldn't hear her, of course, but he figured it out pretty quick by looking around at the other men in the line, and he unknotted his tie and stuffed it in his pocket. After another minute, he reached up and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, too. That was more like it. He was getting better at details like that.

There were two girls standing close to him, laughing and chatting with each other, one with dark hair tumbling down her shoulders and glitter applied liberally to her eyelids, the other with her blonde hair up in a big, poufy updo. The glittery brunette glanced over at Rogers, and then did a double-take. She leaned forward and whispered something to her friend, who smiled broadly and looked over at him, too. He noticed them looking, and smiled politely. Seeing a conversation coming, Sharon reached up and switched on her earpiece.

"Have you been here before?" Glitter Girl asked Rogers, her voice coming in clearly through Sharon's earpiece. He shook his head, and she leaned forward with a conspiratorial look. "The secret to getting inside," she said, "is to stand out from the crowd."

"Stand out how?" Rogers asked.

"No idea," Glitter Girl said, and she and her friend went into peals of laughter. "That's the problem! We've been standing here 20 minutes already."

The bouncer was moving through the crowd, asking for IDs and sending a few people here and there toward the entrance. He stopped in front of Rogers and looked at him expectantly, and Rogers reached into his pocket and handed over his card. The bouncer looked at it carefully for a minute and then up at Rogers.

"Okay-" the bouncer started to say.

"The birthdate on that isn't right," Rogers interrupted.

The bouncer stopped in his tracks and stared at him.

"What?" he said.

"That isn't my birthdate."

The bouncer looked dumbfounded, and so did the two girls standing there watching. "Well, what_ is_ your birthdate?" he asked at last.

"1918," Rogers said.

"1980?" the bouncer asked.

"1918," Rogers repeated, enunciating very clearly.

Glitter Girl and her blond friends broke out into a fit of giggles, and suddenly the bouncer grinned too. "Okay, man," he chuckled. "Points for creativity. I've never seen that one before. And since there's no earthly way you're under 21, go ahead in. Any of these other people with you?"

"We are," Glitter Girl spoke up eagerly. Rogers hesitated, but before he could say anything the bouncer waved all three of them in. The two girls giggled and followed Rogers in like a pair of excited puppies.

Sharon put down her phone and strolled boldly to the front of the line, suddenly understanding something that hadn't made sense before: If Rogers was willing to apply for the Army multiple times under false addresses, why hadn't he just lied about his medical history while he was at it? It seemed the obvious thing to do. Now she realized: It isn't that he's a bad liar. It's that he _hates_ lying, and he won't do it any more than he absolutely has to.

She reached into her purse, pulled out her S.H.I.E.L.D. badge, and showed it to the bouncer. He looked at it for a second, and then nodded her toward the door.

Inside, music was thumping and lights were flashing. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust, and then she didn't immediately see Rogers. Sharon wove her way through the crowd, searching, until she finally caught sight of him again, taking a moment to be grateful that he was tall enough to stand out in the crowd.

He was standing at the edge of the dance floor, staring at the scene below with his mouth open, a kind of horror creeping across his face. Sharon didn't even have to look at the dancers to know what he was thinking. The bumping, the grinding, the clothes — or the lack thereof — common in nightclubs were definitely not anything he would have seen in the 1940s. She suppressed her exasperation. If he wanted the old-fashioned experience, why didn't he go to a ballroom? Or a swing club? Or even a country music bar?

Then she softened a little. He must have had no idea what he was getting into. He must have assumed that if it was a dance club, there'd be people dressed up nicely and having a good time. Well, he was half right; they were having a good time. But Rogers definitely wasn't. He stood there a little longer, his expression gradually sinking into disappointment, until finally he clenched one hand into a fist, tapped it against his thigh a couple of times, and then turned around and walked away.

Sharon had no doubt he was going to leave the club. But he hadn't gone far through the crowd when suddenly Glitter Girl from the line outside was standing right in his path, and he pulled up short.

"Hey!" she said, smiling brightly at him, nearly shouting to be heard over the music. "I don't think I ever got your name."

He looked a little trapped, but he smiled politely and said, "It's Steve."

"What?"

He leaned closer to her so she could hear over the music. "Steve!"

"Steve? Hi, I'm Courtney." She gave him a cutesy little wave and smiled again. "Are you meeting anyone here?"

"No."

"My friend just ditched me," Courtney said with a tinkling laugh, shaking her head so that her earrings swung wildly against her neck. "Hey, do you want to go get a drink or something?"

He said something that Sharon couldn't quite catch — the thumping music was playing havoc with her earpiece — but Courtney took him by the arm and fairly pulled him toward the bar. Sharon followed them at a distance, relieved. At least it would be quieter over there.

They sat down together at the bar and ordered drinks. Rogers took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. Sharon leaned up against a post behind them, some distance away. She could hear them much better now. They were just making small talk: where are you from, how long have you lived in New York, what do you like to do?

The girl was definitely flirting with him, and he was — cautiously — flirting back. Sharon shook her head a little at his shyness. The girl was making her interest plain. Didn't he know he could get away with being a lot more forward than that?

But of course he didn't, she realized. How long had he looked the way he did? Only a few years, by his reckoning of time, anyway. And he'd been fighting a war all that time, surrounded by a bunch of men. This could very well be his first real social encounter with a woman since his transformation. No wonder he was hesitant.

He was looking a little more relaxed, though, now that the dance floor was out of sight. And Courtney was wearing a dress that covered more skin than many of the other women there. He seemed to be comfortable enough with her. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation.

They'd been sitting there talking for a good half hour, and Sharon had had to rebuff several attempts by passing guys to draw her into a conversation, when Courtney suddenly slid off her stool.

"Come on," she said, pulling on Rogers' arm. He stood up, looking confused. "Come on. Let's go dance now."

"I don't... I don't wanna dance," he said quickly, planting his feet and stopping her cold. Courtney pouted a little at that, but then she looked at him again with narrowed eyes. A crooked smile tugged at her lips and her eyes suddenly gleamed.

"You don't want to dance?" she said slowly. "You want to do... something else?"

Rogers nodded quickly, looking relieved. "Yeah."

"I know where to go. Come on!" She pulled at his hand again, and this time he relented, following her as she wove through the crowd. Sharon was hard-pressed to keep up with them, but she managed to catch sight of them disappearing into a door marked employees-only. When Sharon reached it, she opened it a crack and peeked through. There was no one in sight. Sharon slipped through the door and quietly crept down the narrow hallway. The music was muffled here, reduced to the thumping beat. She passed the employee bathrooms and moved on. She heard a giggle not far ahead, and she slowed her pace.

Sharon spotted an open doorway ahead and stopped before she reached it, reaching into her purse and pulling out her compact mirror. She opened it up and held it out, angling it so she could see around the corner. Yep, they were in there. Some kind of storage room. Rogers was looking around in confusion.

"What-?" he started to say. Courtney grabbed his face with both hands, stood up on tiptoes in her tottering heels, and kissed him.

Rogers looked so shocked when the girl pulled away that Sharon had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Did he seriously not see that coming? Apparently not. She watched in the tiny mirror, wondering if he would bolt.

She was a little surprised when he didn't. He just stood there, looking at Courtney, his eyes darting around her face. More slowly this time, the girl went up on her tiptoes again and kissed him more gently. This time, he actually kissed her back, putting one hand carefully on her back.

Sharon leaned back against the wall, blowing out a silent sigh, still holding up her mirror. She didn't really want to watch this, but she knew she had to stick around. If Rogers had any predilections, any weaknesses, Fury would want to know. Things like that could be problematic in their line of work. She'd had to endure some pretty personal questions along those lines during her application process.

Things went on for a while. Sharon tried not to shift impatiently. Courtney had her hands wrapped around the back of Rogers' neck, but then she slid them down his chest, and then down lower, landing on his belt buckle.

Rogers started, and suddenly grabbed her by the wrists, pulling back a step and looking at her strangely.

Then she asked him a question. A really direct, explicit question that made Sharon's eyebrows shoot up.

Rogers stared at the girl and didn't answer right away. Around the corner, Sharon cringed on his behalf. Did he even know what that meant? She didn't know what nomenclature had been around since the old days, and what hadn't been. He had to have some clue what it meant, given the context. He _had_ to.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "I think... we should go have another drink."

"Okay..." Courtney said slowly, looking a little hurt. "Okay. Let's go have another drink."

Quietly and quickly, Sharon slipped into the employee bathroom and waited there until she heard them walk down the hallway. After a minute, she came out again and made her way back to the bar. They were sitting there again, getting another round of drinks. She reclaimed her previous spot behind them and listened in.

Courtney was chattering away, but Rogers wasn't saying much this time, instead looking at the girl with a crease slowly deepening between his eyebrows.

"Have you ever dated a guy shorter than you?" he asked suddenly, interrupting her in the middle of a sentence.

"What?" Courtney made a face. "Of course not."

"Would you?"

"What for?" she asked blankly.

"What if he was the perfect guy in every way?" he persisted.

"If he was shorter than me, he wouldn't be perfect," Courtney said coolly, taking another sip of her drink. "Besides..." Her eyes roamed over Rogers' body. "It's not like there's a shortage of tall guys."

She looked down to take another sip, and missed seeing Rogers' face turn to stone. Then she put down her glass and hopped off the stool.

"I'm going to run to the ladies' room," she announced. "Don't move a muscle." She rubbed his bicep flirtatiously and swished off.

Rogers sat there, a living statue, hand clenched around his glass but not drinking from it. His lip was curled slightly in disgust, perfectly matching what Sharon was feeling right now. Stupid ditzy girl.

"Just go," Sharon whispered at Rogers' rigid back, and after a few more seconds, he did exactly that, putting money down on the counter, grabbing his jacket, and heading straight for the door. He walked so fast that he was already a good distance down the sidewalk by the time Sharon managed to get outside, too. She had to half-run to catch up with him.

She almost expected him to start running, his usual response when a new freakout began brewing. But he only walked rapidly for a few blocks, and then stopped on an overpass. He stood looking over the wall and watched the traffic for a while. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. A pocket watch?

He flipped it open and looked at it. Sharon's eyes widened. Not a pocket watch. The long-lost compass Fury had told her about. She'd never seen him take it out before.

* * *

Steve gazed unseeing at the headlights moving below him in an unending stream. New York, the city that never slept... not unlike himself.

The evening really hadn't turned out the way he had expected. He saw now that he should have known something was wrong when the girl kissed him that fast. But he hadn't been sure that that wasn't the way things normally played out. His own lack of experience had worked against him.

His desperation for human contact might have had something to do with it, too.

And to be honest, the kissing had been nice. He felt his cheeks flush even now, just thinking about it. It had been really nice. It was just that the girl _wasn't_.

With a sinking sensation, he realized that no longer being a little guy that girls were afraid to step on hadn't solved his problems the way he had always assumed it would. He had put so much effort into talking to Courtney. Trying to be friendly, trying to make a connection. He thought he had been doing pretty well. But now he saw that she had only been interested in him because of the way he looked. She didn't know who he was inside. She didn't even care to find out. He had braced himself for the possibility of rejection. He hadn't braced himself for the possibility of being used. And it didn't feel great.

How was he supposed to spot the difference in the future? How would he ever know whether a girl really liked him for who he was? He _couldn't_ ever know. It wasn't like with Peggy, who had shown care and concern for him as a person even before he'd been chosen as the candidate for Project Rebirth. He had never doubted the depths of their friendship, even later when he had been uncertain about whether or when he should try to take things to the next level with her.

And now all that was gone. He would never have that certainty again with anyone. He was what he was, and he couldn't go back.

He reached down into his pocket and pulled out the compass. He'd always reserved this for the times of his greatest need, alone in his bedroom. He didn't want to reduce the potency of it by leaning on it too often. But he could feel his heart starting to speed up and the old familiar sensations returning; he was going to have another episode tonight. It had been a month since he'd had one, and now it felt like the claws were closing around him, dragging him back into the dark cage. He felt a flash of anger. He was so tired of this. He wanted to go back to work. He wanted to get on with his life. He tried to focus on Peggy's picture, but it brought none of the usual peace.

There was only one thing left to do. He put the compass back in his pocket, set his jaw, and started to run.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** This was one of the trickier chapters to write, and I'm still not sure if I got it right. Does Steve seem in character? Does his mental state match about where he was at the beginning of "The Avengers"? (This chapter takes place only a week or so before that.) I'd be glad to hear either reassurance or constructive criticism. :-) _


	13. Chapter 13

_**Author's note:** Thanks to Nzie, Sofiarose613 and everyone else who has left a review!_

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Sharon slumped in front of her computer screen, eyes bleary, watching Rogers browse the internet.

The moment he had started running last night, she'd gone straight back to base. No point in trying to follow him. She'd watched him on the tracker, running all over the neighborhood. He hadn't stopped anywhere, as usual. Just running and running. Finally, he'd come back, showered, and tried to go to sleep. But no luck. She'd stayed awake with him, every step of the way. When the sun rose, he got dressed and went about his morning routine with a set face. Sharon was sick on his behalf. He had been doing so well.

There was a knock at the door, and Sharon roused herself to go open it. That would be her replacement for the day shift. But when she opened the door, it wasn't Agent Berman like she was expecting, but a red-headed woman in blue jeans and a black jacket.

"Agent Romanoff!" Sharon moved aside to let her in, surprise jarring her back into alertness. "Is Fury moving you to this detail?" she asked. Surely there were better uses for Natasha Romanoff's time than sitting around watching a video feed. Sharon had the impression that she was at the top of the food chain, so to speak, at S.H.I.E.L.D. She'd been lucky to work with Romanoff a couple of times as support over the last few years.

"I won't be a regular," Romanoff answered, coming inside and shutting the door. "Fury wants me to get familiar with all the potential candidates for the Avengers Initiative. So where is Rogers now?"

Sharon pointed up at the ceiling. "Right above us. He's on the computer." She gestured at her laptop, which was currently mirroring Rogers' screen.

Romanoff perched on the edge of the desk and looked at the screen. "Why is he Googling _that_?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Sharon glanced back at the screen. "It isn't out of prurient interest, believe me," she said. "Some girl at The Flamingo said that to him last night. I don't think he knew quite what it meant."

"Wow. Did he let her?"

"Nope," Sharon said, perching on the edge of the desk as Romanoff plunked down into the chair. "He ghosted her."

"Not cute enough?"

"She was pretty cute. I don't think he went there for that. I think he thought he was going to meet a nice girl to court or something."

Romanoff stared. "At _The Flamingo_?"

Sharon felt compelled to defend Rogers for some reason. "If it were anyone else, it would be funny," she said. "But I felt awful for him. He had no idea what he was walking into."

"I'm actually kind of relieved," Romanoff said wryly. "I thought we had another Tony Stark on our hands for a second there."

"Have you met Stark?" Sharon asked curiously.

Romanoff nodded. "Last year, undercover. I had the privilege of watching him get smashed at his own birthday party. And when I say smashed, I mean I watched him drunkenly destroy five different rooms in his own mansion, screwing around with his suit." She quirked an eyebrow at Sharon.

"Great," Sharon said. "So I guess the playboy reputation is well-deserved?"

"Oh, yes," Romanoff said meaningfully. "Guess what kind of photos I had to Photoshop my face onto to make sure I got his attention in the first place?" She shrugged. "That's the job. To tell you the truth, Stark's so charismatic that it's hard to hate him."

"What about Dr. Banner?" Sharon asked. "Did you get assigned to him yet?"

"I was watching him at Culver University. Got to see _him_ smash a bunch of Humvees, a couple of cannons, and a helicopter." Romanoff leaned back in a chair and grinned at Sharon. "I'm going to be disappointed if I don't see Rogers smash anything in the next 12 hours."

"You're going to be disappointed," Sharon said. "For a guy with PTSD, he's..." She trailed off, unsure how to explain. "I mean, Fury hasn't put him on active duty for good reason. His symptoms are bad. Sometimes really bad. You can see it in his eyes. But... he doesn't drink. He doesn't take it out on other people or wreck his apartment or curse his fate. I've never even seen him cry. And he lost-" She took a deep breath and slowly shook her head. "-_everything_."

Romanoff's eyebrows were slowly contracting. "Are you telling me," she said with more than a hint of skepticism, "that the whole squeaky-clean, Mr. Perfect, there's-nothing-I-can't-handle Captain America schtick isn't really a schtick?" She made a soft scoffing noise. "No one's _that_ good."

Sharon knew she couldn't exactly say anything about her Aunt Peggy personally vouching for Rogers' character, so she just shrugged. "I can't read his mind. All I know is, the most transgressive thing I've ever seen him do is eat pie for breakfast. Once."

"Naughty," Romanoff said. She looked at Rogers' computer screen and then shook her head slowly, a smile playing on her lips. "Fury, Fury, Fury," she said softly. "He's really going to try to get these guys together at some point? As a functional team? All three of them are walking disasters."

"Rogers just needs some time to get it together," Sharon said quickly. "He's been doing pretty well lately, up until last night."

Romanoff's eyes flicked up to Sharon's face. "How long have you been watching him?"

"About four months," Sharon said.

"Ah," Romanoff said with a knowing look. "Long enough to get attached."

"I'm not _attached_," Sharon objected. "I'm just... it's kind of hard to watch sometimes, you know? He's a nice guy. He didn't ask for any of this to happen to him."

"A nice guy, looking for a nice girl," Romanoff said, glancing back at the video feed. Rogers had closed the browser and was now sitting at the kitchen table with his head down on his arms. "There _are_ nice girls here in the 21st century. Someone needs to tell him where to find them."

"Well, it can't be me," Sharon said. "Fury said no contact."

"I'll tell him," Romanoff said casually. She reached into the candy bowl on the table and pulled out a sucker.

Sharon paused, surprised. "Fury said you could make contact?"

"Not yet," Romanoff said, pulling off the wrapper and popping the sucker into her mouth, tucking it into one cheek so she could still talk. "But I figure he wouldn't be getting me familiar with potential Avengers unless he intended for me to work with them at some point. I'll tell Rogers then. As soon as I can."

"You're going to tell Captain America where to find a date?" Sharon repeated slowly, making sure she had actually understood correctly.

Romanoff pulled the sucker out of her mouth and shrugged. "Sure, why not? It'll be fun."

"Okay then," Sharon said. She patted her pocket, making sure she had her keys, and walked toward the door. She stopped there, and patted her pocket again. She looked back over at the video feed.

"Agent 13?" Romanoff said.

"Yeah?"

"I got this. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," Sharon said.

"You kind of look worried."

It was true. She hated to leave him when he was like this, which was ridiculous. It wasn't like it made a difference to Rogers either way; as far as he knew, he was alone whether it was Sharon watching him, or some other agent, or no one at all. It was just that he had been doing so well. She had really hoped, for his sake, that he would be taken off psychological hold soon.

"Okay," Sharon said at last. "All my reports are on that computer if you want to catch up on him during your downtime. Call me if you have any questions."

* * *

His head resting on his arms at the kitchen table, Steve's thoughts whirled around like snow in a blizzard, and try as he might he could not seem to get a grasp on what exactly the source of the storm was.

He told himself that he didn't really care about the girl from the nightclub. She had been awful, and as a result the night had been a disappointment, but that was nothing. It wasn't like he couldn't try again. Live and learn, do better next time. His mother's unofficial motto. Steve clung to her optimistic attitude like a life preserver, although underneath it an uneasy feeling stirred. What if the women of this time period were _all_ like that? He had detected a certain kind of coarseness to that woman on Rumlow's STRIKE team, which he had assumed was just a result of her place in a rough-and-tumble profession dominated by men, but now he was beginning to doubt that was the full explanation. Clearly something had gone terribly wrong between the sexes while he slept in the ice. How else to explain all the marriages that failed these days, not to mention the number of people who didn't bother getting married in the first place, even when there were children involved? All of that hadn't happened in a vacuum.

It was just one bad experience, Steve told himself firmly. Just a stroke of bad luck. It would have been too much to expect to find another woman like Peggy so quickly. But the episode last night had been bad. One of his worst. An almost continual stream of flashbacks: memories of things he would rather forget twisted into new and disturbing variations, until he thought he would go crazy from the onslaught of images and mood swings. It had been a relief when the numb phase had finally arrived just as the sun rose, but he couldn't really relax even now. He was getting a short respite, as he sometimes did, but it could start up again at any moment.

_What's happened to me?_ he wondered. _Where did the _real_ Steve Rogers go?_

Once, he had thought of himself as just a regular guy. Life in his youth had not exactly been easy, but it hadn't been miserable, either. He had vivid memories of happy times with his mother. Times of careless fun with Bucky, of carnival rides and baseball games and sleepovers. The lulls between battles when he had relaxed with the Howling Commandos and felt more a part of something than he ever had before in his life. Just because the ones he loved were now dead, did that mean that those parts of him had died with them? Just who exactly had come out of the ice? What if Steve Rogers really _had_ died all those years ago, and now all that was left was an empty shell of a man who simply resembled him? Was he doomed to grief and anger for the rest of his life?

He had to snap out of this. He had to find the old Steve Rogers and bring him back. He just wasn't sure how. The compass wasn't working for him anymore, and that scared him more than anything. It hadn't made a dent in his episode last night. He had held it, feeling the metal grow warm in his hand, but he couldn't picture Peggy anymore. Instead what he saw was an empty dance hall, filled with all the remnants of everyone else's happiness and joy, but nothing left over for him. Not a glass of wine, not a note of music, not a soul to keep him company.

No one to dance with.

Beneath the table, his hand clenched into a fist. He needed to see Peggy. He needed to hear her voice. He needed her wisdom, her compassion, her perspective. She had been right about him; sometimes he _was_ too dramatic. He needed her good plain common sense.

There was a chance, however remote, that he could have it right now.

Steve could feel a trickle of sweat moving down the back of his neck and soaking into his collar. All it would take was a phone call to Maria Hill, and he could have the question answered.

In all this time, he never had asked Agent Hill the one thing he really wanted to ask. Never dared to search it on the internet. And he knew what it was that he feared. Peggy had been 24 when he left. Now she would be in her 90s. If she was still alive at all. Knowledge of her death would hurt him, but then again, how could he possibly hurt more than he already was? Whether she was alive or not, it was over. Time had destroyed whatever chance at happiness they could have had.

And there was another problem. While he knew a little about what Peggy had done for S.H.I.E.L.D., he had only guesses about what may have happened in her personal life. Once he asked the question, all of that would become real. Permanent. He'd been clinging to her memory these past few months, thinking of her as belonging to him. But Peggy being what she was — a beautiful woman, and an unusually accomplished one — he knew there was a good chance that she didn't belong to him at all anymore. He didn't know what would hurt him more: the knowledge that maybe she had belonged to someone else all these years, or the possibility that she had lived out her life in loneliness. He felt a stab of shame at his own cowardice. Whichever way it had happened, it was already over and done with. Nothing he could control. Nothing to do but accept it and move on.

Looking at the compass didn't work anymore. He needed something more to make Peggy real again.

* * *

Watching on the video feed, Natasha saw Rogers go over to the phone and make a call.

She reached over and tapped the control that activated the bug in the phone. Immediately the number he'd dialed popped up on the screen. It was a secure S.H.I.E.L.D. number.

A woman answered. "Hello?"

"Agent Hill? It's Steve Rogers. Are you busy?"

Involuntarily, Nat found herself smiling. His voice sounded exactly like she'd remembered it from his old films, deep and business-like, with something of the military cadence to it. He was facing the camera fully for the first time, holding the phone to his ear, and suddenly she pictured him as he would have looked, wearing his uniform and talking into a radio, ordering a strike against some Hydra base. It should have been quite the picture, except it was spoiled by a strange kind of blankness in Rogers' expression. Disconnected. Like the lights were on but nobody was home.

Agent Hill was responding. "I'm never too busy for you, Steve. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if I could get copies of some S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel files."

Nat frowned, and when Hill answered, it sounded like she was frowning, too. "Files? What files?"

"The files..." Rogers hesitated. "The files for my guys. The Howling Commandos. And some of the people from the SSR. Colonel Phillips and Howard Stark and..." He paused again. "The ones who founded S.H.I.E.L.D. All of those."

Hill didn't answer right away. Finally, she said, "Yes, of course. I'll have an agent bring them by right now."

"Thank you."

The call ended. Nat hardly had time to wonder what that was all about, when her own phone rang. She glanced at it, and saw that it was Hill.

She pressed accept. "Romanoff," she said.

"Were you listening in on that call?" Hill asked. "What's going on with Rogers?"

Nat sat up straight. "I'm not sure. Agent 13 just left. She said he had a bad experience with a girl last night."

"With a girl?" Hill sighed. "Fantastic. Then he's already worked up, and this is just going to make it worse."

"What's with the files?" Nat asked.

"Those are all the people he knew, back in the day. He's never asked to look at them before."

"He's not going to be surprised by anything in them, is he?" Nat asked. "I mean, they're all dead by now, right? He must know that."

"Yes, I'm sure he's guessed that," Hill said. "Seeing it in black and white might be something else, though." She blew out a sigh. "And he's been doing so well. But this is exactly the kind of thing that tends to send him over the edge. You'll have to watch him carefully. I'll send you a copy of the same files so you can see what he sees. Let me know if he gets out of control."

She ended the call.

Nat sat back to wait. Rogers was pacing the apartment, but true to Hill's word, it wasn't long before Nat heard a soft scrape, and glanced over in time to see someone push a file under her door. She heard footsteps going up the stairs, and a few moments later, on the video feed, Rogers got up and answered his door. An agent handed him the files he'd asked for and left again.

Rogers stood there for a long time, holding the files but not opening them. Holding her own copies, Nat suddenly felt uneasy. What exactly had Hill meant by "watch him if he gets out of control"? What was "out of control" for Rogers? Agent 13 had said he wasn't violent, but then again Bruce Banner was pretty mild-mannered, and the sight of him laying waste to Culver University's campus was all too fresh in her mind. True, Rogers wasn't powered by gamma-enhanced rage, but Nat had a better idea than most of what a super-soldier was capable of.

In a flash, she saw it all over again — the masked man with the metal arm raising his gun to point it at her — and involuntarily she flinched, feeling once again the bullet tear through her body and hearing the surprised grunt of the nuclear scientist behind her as the same bullet pierced him. The Winter Soldier had been unnaturally fast and unnaturally strong, more than even Nat could handle, and he had been implacable in his ferocity. The one thing that stuck out in her mind more than anything else was the strange blankness in his eyes as he attacked. Like the lights were on but nobody was home.

It had looked an awful lot like the blankness in Rogers' expression right now.

Heart beating a little faster, Nat shrugged off her jacket and tapped the wrist control on her gauntlets underneath, powering up the Widow's Bite, and then pulled out her gun to make sure it was loaded and ready to go.

Better safe than sorry.

* * *

Using a quick inhalation to steel himself, Steve sat down at his kitchen table and opened the folder that had just been delivered.

Dum Dum Dugan's picture was on top. The word "deceased" was stamped in large red letters under his photo. A cold chill went down Steve's spine. Dum Dum had had a gift for inspiring the men with his rough confidence. Steve saw that he had been put in command of the Commandos after his own disappearance, and he wasn't surprised. Dum Dum had seemed as solid as the Swiss Alps. Unbreakable. He had died in his 70s, of a heart attack.

_This isn't a surprise,_ he reminded himself sternly. _Most of them are probably gone. Maybe all of them._

Reluctantly Steve turned over the page. Jim Morita's file came next. Marked "Deceased." He'd missed Jim's sarcasm and irreverence, and the way he could turn off the jokes like a switch whenever he was needed for his steady competence with the equipment, whether it was a radio or a gun in his hand. And now all that was lost forever. Steve squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and turned over the page.

Junior Juniper. James Montgomery Falsworth. Gabe Jones. Pinky Pinkerton. Jacques Dernier. One by one, he looked at their files. All gone. Not a single one left alive. Blowing out a shaky breath, Steve turned over Jacques' sheet. And Colonel Phillips was dead. No surprise there; he had been quite a bit older than Steve's buddies. Three pages left to go.

Howard Stark was dead, and Steve lingered on that file for a while. Howard had been a decent guy, although he had been prone to bouts of condescension and self-centeredness. Steve hadn't held it against him; there was something about an overabundance of money that tended to do that to a guy. But he had been a self-made man; he had earned everything he had, and his genius was undisputed. Steve had put his own life into his hands, undergoing his procedure in the Vita-Ray chamber Howard had built, and he had come out on the other side safe and well. Howard had been extremely generous with his resources and talents, too, setting Steve up with all his gear and constantly tinkering around to improve it, and Steve was grateful for that. He saw with some surprise that Howard had not died of natural causes like the others. Both he and his wife had died in a car crash in the '90s.

He turned the page. The next one was a file he hadn't asked for: Howard's son, Tony. He was listed as an advisor to S.H.I.E.L.D., which meant there was a chance Steve would meet him through work someday. That was probably why Hill had included it. He'd already read about Iron Man in the newspaper and seen him on TV and all over the internet. In fact, the topic of Iron Man was pretty much impossible to avoid; Tony Stark seemed to have his father's talent for showmanship and then some. He was obviously his own biggest fan. Steve pushed the page aside.

The last page lay on the table, and Steve looked away instinctively, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. Did he really want to do this? Once he had looked, he wouldn't be able to unsee it. He wouldn't be able to unknow it.

_I can do this._

He braced himself, and looked.

The page was labeled "Margaret Carter." He frowned; he had never heard anyone call her Margaret, although he knew that was her name. She was always just Peggy. She was young in the photo, with a serious expression, looking professional and business-like in a button-up shirt and blazer.

There was no bright red stamp of "DECEASED" beneath the photo. Steve felt a crashing sense of relief, quickly followed by a thrill of... what? Fear? Anticipation?

Eyes flicking rapidly all over the page, Steve saw that the file marked her as "Retired." And underneath her photo, there was a box with the last known contact information.

_Address: 57-J Merryweather, Winchester, UK_

_Telephone: 020-7946-03560_

_Marital status: Married (cross reference file GEB-061418 redacted)_

He stared at the word "married," waiting for the panic to wash over him, but he felt nothing. Not one thing.

She was in England. So close to him. He realized that he'd been thinking of her as still being in 1945, in a time and place so far removed that she might as well have been on another planet. Unreachable. Untouchable. But she was only a plane ride away. A phone call away. He could be talking to her in minutes if he wanted to.

Was that what he wanted? Suddenly Steve wasn't sure.

He ran his eyes over the file again. He wasn't surprised to see the information on her family was redacted. There had been a number of SSR agents back in the day with similar arrangements, he knew, especially the ones who specialized in espionage. It was an extra layer of protection for them, vulnerable as they were to betrayals or blackmail. Of course Peggy would have been protective of her family. Of course she would have kept them off the record. She hadn't even taken her husband's surname, it seemed. He was glad, actually. He didn't want to know anything about the man who had benefitted from what he had lost. Not even his name.

His eyes flicked over to the phone. Should he call? Would he be able to keep his emotions in check? What would he say to her? What if her husband answered the phone? What if Peggy did? Would she even want to speak with him? Steve was now in her far-distant past, maybe nothing more than a single chapter in a full and happy life.

Suddenly he realized he did not even know if she had been informed of his revival. If he called her now... if she still thought he was dead... what if he scared her? What if she didn't believe it was him? What if, at her age, she was already confused? The sound of his voice might upset her. Might make her doubt her own mind.

The relief he had felt from realizing she was still alive evaporated like fog in the morning sun. It didn't really make a difference that she was still alive, Steve realized with sinking heart. Not to him. She was still untouchable. Unreachable. If he called he might hurt her. And even if he didn't...

He wasn't ready for this.

Maybe one day he would be able to make the call. Maybe one day he would be ready. But it wasn't going to be today.

The sheet of paper bearing Peggy's photograph blurred. Steve blinked rapidly, and a tear broke loose and slid down his cheek. The blessed numbness slipped away from him, and the pain came flooding back. His face crumpled, and he put his hand up to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut, letting it come. No point in fighting it.

Maybe if he let himself grieve hard enough now, he would be tired enough to sleep tonight.

* * *

Nat brushed impatiently at the tear that was tickling her cheek. Sniffling, and a little embarrassed, she tucked away her gun and tapped the control on her gauntlet to power down the Widow's Bite. It was obvious now that she wasn't going to need it. Steve Rogers was no Winter Soldier.

She made herself lean back in her chair, her neck muscles tense and sore from leaning close to the monitor for so long without even realizing it.

"Okay, Rogers..." she murmured out loud, feeling more than a little foolish as she smeared the rest of the tear across her cheek with the palm of her hand. "What are we doing here? Why are we crying for the one that's still alive?"

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note: **__This is the first time I've written something from Natasha Romanoff's point of view, and I really enjoyed it. She's fun. :-) Obviously I couldn't have her meet Steve yet since we saw their first meeting on the helicarrier in "The Avengers," but she clearly already knew about his return by then. I figured it wasn't much of a stretch to think she got a turn spying on Steve, especially since we know from "Iron Man 2" that she spied on Tony and from the comic book "Fury's Big Week" that she spied on Bruce._

_As always, let me know what you thought, whether it's about Nat's entrance to the story, Sharon's thoughts about Steve, or Steve's grief over Peggy._


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

When Sharon came back at dinnertime, she found a tired-eyed Natasha Romanoff wading through all the reports Sharon had written on Rogers for the past several months.

"How did he do?" Sharon asked, slipping off her shoes and glancing at the video feed. Rogers wasn't in sight.

"Not so good," Romanoff said, not looking up from the laptop. "He looked at the S.H.I.E.L.D. files of all his old friends from his time. He got pretty upset."

Sharon's heart sank. So he'd finally done it. "Where is he?" she asked. "Out running?" She almost didn't bother asking. Of course he would be.

Romanoff pointed up at the ceiling. "Sleeping."

Sharon paused. "In the daytime? He never does that."

"Well, he just did," Romanoff said. "He went into the bedroom hours ago and hasn't come out. There's not a sound on the mics." She gathered up her jacket. "Cut the guy a break, he's depressed. He didn't even have a family, and now he's lost every friend he ever had, too." An odd expression flashed across her face, so fast that Sharon didn't quite have time to read it properly.

"It's PTSD, not depression," she responded automatically.

"I know, but you did say he didn't sleep last night," Romanoff said. "He must be tired. And like I said, the files really upset him. Better let him sleep it off." She pushed her arms into the sleeves of her jacket.

"Are you taking another shift tomorrow?" Sharon asked her.

"No," Romanoff said, adjusting her collar. "Duty calls. I gotta catch a plane."

"Where to? Anything interesting?"

"Some moron in Russia, selling Stark weapons on the black market."

"Sounds like fun," Sharon said lightly, hoping Romanoff wouldn't see how worried she was about Rogers, not wanting to hear another quip about getting attached to a target.

"Well, you know how much I love interrogations." Romanoff smiled brightly, although it seemed a little forced. She leaned over and pulled a memory stick out of the laptop. "I'm just... going to take a copy of your reports with me, if that's all right, so I can finish reading them on the plane. This guy, he's..." She trailed off.

"There's something about him," Sharon supplied.

"Yeah," Romanoff said slowly, and then she cleared her throat and swiftly left, closing the door behind her.

* * *

Alone again, Sharon paced the apartment and thought rapidly. In all the months she had been watching Rogers, he hadn't once slept during the day. Hadn't even tried. Something about this was off. Was he really sleeping? Or just staring at the ceiling in wakeful exhaustion? Maybe she should call Agent Hill to come and check on him. She hated to do that, partly because she knew it would generate a report and then Fury would know. He might call Sharon up then, demanding to know what went wrong, but that was the least of her worries. Up until now, no matter how low Rogers got, he had always behaved in predictable ways. For him to do something so out of character now...

Maybe it didn't mean anything. Then again, maybe it did. Suddenly a cold chill went down Sharon's spine. She'd been told the signs to watch for in case Rogers ever got bad enough to become a danger to himself. She hadn't recognized anything like that, and yet she was suddenly afraid.

She put in her earpiece and listened in on the mic from his bedroom, turning it up to full volume. Romanoff was right, there wasn't a sound. For the first time, Sharon regretted not putting a camera in that room. She hadn't seen the need to intrude on him to that degree. If he was sleeping now, the last thing she should do was disturb him. But if it was something else... her intuition was telling her to act.

Agent Hill was there less than 30 minutes after she made the call. Sharon was afraid Hill would think she was overreacting, but she seemed to take Sharon's explanation seriously, and went straight up to Rogers' door and knocked loudly, while Sharon hovered within earshot down in the stairwell.

Rogers didn't answer the door, not even after Hill knocked several times. She frowned and came down a couple of steps, meeting Sharon's eyes.

"You have the key?" she asked, and Sharon dug it out of her pocket and handed it over.

Hill unlocked the door and glanced back at Sharon. "Follow me in, but stay back out of sight," she said in a low voice, and Sharon nodded in confirmation.

They walked quietly through the living room and down the hall. The bedroom door was half open, and Hill silently eased up to it and carefully opened the door wider. From further back, Sharon could see that Rogers was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to the door.

"Steve?" Hill said softly.

He didn't turn around.

"Steve?" she repeated a little louder.

He still didn't turn, although Sharon could see his shoulders moving up and down slightly as he breathed. She had no idea what was happening or what they should do next, but Hill decisively moved into the room and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Steve," she said.

He turned toward her in one startled motion, and Sharon shrank back further down the hall, not wanting him to see her. But through the crack between the frame and the door she could see him blink several times in surprise, glancing around his bedroom and then back up at Hill, looking confused.

"Sorry," Hill said quickly. "I didn't mean to startle you. You left your front door hanging open. I called out, but you didn't answer. I was afraid you'd had a break-in."

It took him a long moment to answer. "I left my door open?" he asked, sounding bewildered.

"Yeah. You okay?"

He rubbed his eyes and then kept his hand up there, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I guess... I must have fallen asleep."

"Long day?" Hill asked. She still had her hand on his shoulder.

Rogers glanced out his window, and seemed surprised to see that it was dark outside. "What time is it?" he asked slowly.

"Almost 8 o'clock, I think."

His eyes widened slightly and his breathing quickened, but he didn't say anything, and after a few moments Hill asked again, "You okay?"

Sharon fully expected him to brush her off with a reflexive "fine," but instead he said in a monotone: "I don't feel good."

Hill sat next to him on the bed, and with her left hand down by her side she made a subtle shooing gesture in Sharon's direction. Immediately, Sharon turned and very, very quietly slipped out of Rogers' apartment and carefully closed the door behind her.

Once she was back in the apartment below his, Sharon deliberately turned off the cameras and mics one by one. She was tempted to leave them on, aching to know what was going on with Rogers and if he was okay, even though she had instructions never to listen in on Hill's visits. But lately, she had been feeling uneasy about the level of surveillance she _was_ authorized to carry out. This assignment was incredibly intrusive, and even though Sharon knew it was her job and that it was being done for a good reason, it was right that she should give Rogers this one moment of privacy.

* * *

Maria Hill carefully sat next to Steve on the bed. "What's wrong?" she asked gently.

He didn't know what to say. His body felt stiff and his eyes were dry and sore, but that wasn't even the half of it. How was he supposed to explain to her that he couldn't remember even coming into this room? Somehow he had just lost hours of time, and he knew he hadn't been asleep but he could not possibly have been awake, either.

And it was there hovering in the back of his consciousness, the memory of reading Peggy's file earlier today, but something was holding him back from dredging that back up and looking at it too closely. His heart galloped in his chest like he'd just been on one of his marathon running sessions. Maybe he _had_ been running. His perfect memory had failed him, and he just didn't know anymore.

The silence stretched out for a long time while Steve wrestled with his thoughts. Finally, Maria stirred beside him, and then she impulsively reached out and laid her hand on top of his where it was resting on his leg. He froze for a few seconds, unsure what to do, and then without really making the decision to do so, he slowly turned his palm up and let Maria lace her fingers through his and give his hand a squeeze. Her hand was warm and solid, and he was desperate enough to feel something _real _that he suddenly found himself clinging to her hand like it was a lifeline.

They sat that way for a long time. Feeling the warmth of her palm against his was an unbelievably intense relief, like being handed a whole jugful of cool water after a long, hot march down a dusty road, and even though he knew he shouldn't be imposing his personal problems on a commanding officer like this, he couldn't bring himself to pull his hand away just yet.

"You must have something better to do," Steve said at last, forcing his voice to sound normal.

"Actually, I don't," Maria said, not relinquishing his hand. "I'm not on call tonight, which means I get to hang out with my friends as late as I want to." She flashed him a smile that was without question a sincere one, and he was startled to realize Maria thought of him that way. All this time, he had assumed that the effort she had been spending on him was a quiet dedication to her S.H.I.E.L.D. duties and nothing more. It was undeniably comforting to discover that he had assumed wrong.

"So what's going on with you?" Maria asked.

"I think... I think I'm going crazy," he suddenly confessed, the words coming out in a rush.

"You're not going crazy, Steve," Maria said calmly. "Crazy people don't know they're crazy. That's what makes them crazy."

"I want to go back to work," he said.

"I know. You'll get there."

He had to force the next words out. "Shouldn't take this long."

"Hey," she said quickly. "There's no rush. Whenever you're ready is fine with us."

"It's been months."

"No one's holding a stopwatch," Maria said firmly. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then said: "Listen, Steve... I want to tell you something." She took a deep breath. "About a year ago, my mother got cancer for the second time. She had gone through treatment a few years earlier, and we were starting to think maybe she was out of the woods... and then it came back. This time, the treatments... they just didn't work. The cancer was too aggressive, and she... she didn't make it."

Steve paused a moment as her words sunk in. "I'm so sorry," he said.

She nodded, looking bleak. "Thank you. It, uh... it was pretty rough on my dad, especially. I don't think he was really prepared for that outcome, you know? Not that you ever _could_ prepare for that. Anyway, I ended up taking a leave of absence from work so I could help him plan the funeral and deal with the paperwork and sort through my mother's possessions and everything else he needed me to help with. It took almost a month to take care of it all and get my dad to where I felt like it was okay to leave him, and then I went ahead and came back to work."

Maria blew out a long sigh. "And three days later, some crisis at work started to brew and I started to handle it like I always do. One minute I had everything under control — you know how it is in this profession, you get used to high-pressure situations, you can even thrive on them — and then suddenly I just..." She sighed again. "Let me be honest with you, Steve. I just had a complete breakdown out of nowhere. We're talking ugly-crying at my desk, couldn't stop, couldn't make decisions, nothing." She looked down, her cheeks touched with pink. "It was... pretty much the most humiliating moment of my life."

"What happened?" Steve asked, concerned.

She shrugged one shoulder. "Fury called in Agent Coulson to take over my operation and then drove me home himself. Told me to take another leave of absence, and that this time I was supposed to take care of myself and not just my dad, and not to come back until I was good and ready. I know what you're thinking — this is _Fury_ we're talking about here — but he was actually really gentle about it. Believe it or not, there is a soft center somewhere deep inside there." She smiled a little.

"They didn't fire you?"

Maria looked a little taken aback. "No, of course not. Is that... did that used to happen?" She seemed surprised.

"Yeah." He was surprised by her surprise.

Her eyes widened a bit as that sunk in. "You know, Steve," she said slowly, "there were a lot of things your generation did better than ours, but I think we might have figured out one thing that yours didn't. We know now that practically everyone deals with an issue like this at some point in their life — depression, anxiety, trauma, grief — and we found out that talking about it, and giving people the time and the tools they need to deal with it, helps a lot more than shaming people, or trying to sweep it under the rug and pretend like it doesn't exist."

Steve thought that over for a long minute.

"I know it exists," he said at last. "But... I want to be normal again."

"This _is_ normal. I'd be more worried if you _weren't_ shook up by what happened," Maria said gently. "And you're doing a lot better than you think. Really." She squeezed his hand.

He could tell she was being sincere, and he felt the tension in his shoulders relax ever so slightly. "Thank you. I'm glad you came by tonight."

Maria smiled at him. "So what do you want to do? Order a pizza? Watch a movie?"

He was relieved, both by the change of subject and by the fact that Maria didn't seem to be in a rush to leave. It was funny; all his life he had always cherished having time alone with his thoughts, but for these past few months he had gotten too much time alone, something he had not realized until now was possible. He thought about Maria's question for a moment and then shrugged a little, his guard let down far enough that he could admit the plain truth, at the risk of sounding finicky: "I don't really like movies anymore."

"Well, what kinds of movies did you used to like?" she asked curiously.

"I don't know. Good ones."

"What were some of your favorites?"

"I liked..." He thought for a minute. "'Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.'"

Maria pursed her lips. "That sounds familiar. I bet we could find that somewhere. Hang on." She pulled out her phone and tapped at it for a minute. "Yep. Here it is. Okay, perfect. What kind of pizza do you like? There's a little place just down the block that I can't get enough of lately."

She was serious? Steve couldn't help but laugh a little. "So we're just gonna have a pizza party? Just you and me?"

Maria quirked an eyebrow. "Can you think of one reason why we shouldn't?"

He paused. "I guess not."

"Okay then." She started dialing. "You better tell me what you like, then, or else I'm going to order anchovies on your half."

* * *

Sharon got a text from Agent Hill saying everything was under control and that she would stay with Rogers for a while if Sharon wanted to get some sleep. She didn't think she'd be able to, but she laid down anyway, and the next thing she knew, Hill was shaking her gently awake.

Sharon sat up on the couch, glancing at the clock: it was past one o'clock in the morning. "Is he okay?" she asked anxiously, smoothing back her flyaway hair and trying to look alert.

"He's sleeping now," Hill said. She looked tired but not worried, and Sharon felt herself instinctively relax in response. "But it's good that you called me. He just... needed to not be alone tonight."

"He's never alone," Sharon said.

Hill nodded. "Your team's been doing an excellent job," she said. "Never lost track of him even once. I've been singing your praises to Fury."

That wasn't what Sharon meant, and she certainly hadn't intended to fish for a compliment, but she knew she couldn't explain what she was really thinking of: that no matter who from S.H.I.E.L.D. was — or wasn't — watching Captain Rogers each day, he always had at least one person in England thinking of him and praying for him every moment of every day. And he always would.

"He's all yours again," Agent Hill said, and she patted Sharon's shoulder as she left.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's notes: **__It's funny which scenes are the hardest to write. This one went through several complete re-writes. At first I intended to write something in the spirit of some of the touching moments in the Tobey Maguire "Spider-Man" movies in which random New Yorkers support Spidey in his times of greatest need. So I had Steve's elderly neighbor caring for him, despite not knowing who he really was. But it just wasn't working for some reason, and then I hit on the idea of having Maria Hill come to the rescue instead. I think she's a great character, although the movies tell us so little about her personal life that I had to — or rather, got to — got to fill in some of the blanks myself. I hope this version worked! Let me know what you thought._

_**Next chapter:** At long last, the narrative will connect with the opening scenes of "The Avengers"!_


	15. Chapter 15

_**Author's note:** If you haven't seen the deleted scene from "The Avengers" that takes place just before the scene between Fury and Steve in the boxing gym, I suggest you go watch it now, as it is relevant to this chapter. It depicts Steve looking at the files of Peggy, Howard and his Howling Commandos, and wandering New York City alone and isolated. It's unfortunate that the scene was cut out, as it explains a lot about Steve's state of mind just before he's called up to fight Loki._

_Thanks to Lamarquise, distanceincrowdedrooms, sofiarose613, 4ever, Amir-015, Nzie, and various Guests for your reviews!_

* * *

**Chapter 15**

It was nearly midnight, and there was no sound in the laundromat but the quiet hum of the dryer. From her seat by the window, Sharon glanced up from her book at the only other occupant of the room, an older man with scraggly gray hair who was sitting at the folding table with his head laid down on his arms, dozing while he waited for his clothes.

The quiet made it easy for her to hear what was coming through her earpiece. Rogers was at the boxing gym across the street, and although all the clients and even the manager had now left for the night, still he remained. There was a continual flurry of loud thumps and grunts coming through her earpiece, and it was plain that Rogers was going through one of his usual insomniac routines, that of trying to beat the living daylights out of a punching bag.

In her head, she couldn't help but egg him on, silently willing him to hit it harder and faster. If he could only exhaust himself enough, maybe he would finally be able to sleep tonight. Despite the brief respite of a single night's sleep after his visit from Agent Hill, he'd immediately relapsed. But he hadn't spent his latest wakeful hours in the usual way, reading books or drawing or running. Instead he had sat at his kitchen table slowly leafing through the personnel files S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent him, then looking over at the phone, then going back to staring at the files. Rinse and repeat, twenty times in a night. Once he had gone so far as to get up, take the phone off the hook and punch in several numbers before he stopped, and then slowly hung up the phone and went back to slump at the table. Most of today had been spent in his numb phase, wandering the streets until he ended up at a restaurant near Stark Tower to sketch, too exhausted and detached to even notice the waitress trying to flirt with him.

Unfortunately, by the time the sun went down his numbness had fled. Sharon cringed slightly as she heard an unusually loud thump in her earpiece, followed by an odd swishing sound; Rogers had probably just destroyed another punching bag and spilled its sandy innards across the floor, the third one that night.

Her phone rang. The man in the laundromat looked over at her blearily, then put his head back down on the table.

Sharon glanced at the screen. It was Fury. Quickly, she pressed "accept" and put the phone to her ear. "Thirteen," she said.

Fury started talking without preamble, as usual. "I'm at Rogers' place. Where is he, and where are you?"

"Two blocks away," Sharon said, keeping her voice down. "Sully's Gym at 51st and 7th. I'm at the laundromat across the street."

"I just put a debriefing packet under his door." She could hear Fury's boots clopping rapidly in the background. "I'm coming over to give him the rundown on his assignment. Stay out of sight while I'm there."

Sharon paused a long moment, dismay flooding her whole body. "Sir, I thought you were waiting until he was stabilized to give him a mission."

"We can't afford to wait any longer. I need him now." She heard a car door slam. "Besides, your reports made it sound like he's on the mend."

"He was," Sharon said, "but he relapsed. He's on a really bad jag right now, Fury. He hasn't _slept_." She hesitated. "I hate to say it, but I don't think he's stable enough for-"

"It doesn't matter if he's ready or not," Fury interrupted. "I'll give him the your-country-needs-you speech. He won't turn me down, which is more than I can guarantee for Stark or Banner."

He was trying to bring in all _three_ of them for a mission? "What is it, sir?" Sharon asked, brow creasing with sudden concern. "What's going down?"

"Need-to-know basis, Thirteen." Fury hung up. A moment later her earpiece went silent, too, and she knew she'd been disconnected from Rogers' mic.

A few minutes later, a black SUV pulled up to the curb across the street, and Fury climbed out. He strode into the gym without once looking in the direction of the laundromat. Sharon watched him disappear with a sinking feeling.

Because she knew Fury was right. There was no way Rogers was going to turn him down.

* * *

Steve's anger still hadn't cooled by the time he got back to his apartment, despite the spring chill in the night air.

Hydra's secret weapon. Schmidt's energy cube. Or the Tesseract, as it was now apparently being called. The thing that had been haunting his dreams on a regular basis since he'd first woken up from the ice.

It was back.

Steve couldn't help but think of the number of men he'd seen vaporized or disfigured by the weapons Hydra had developed using the power of the cube. The images flashed through his mind as clearly as if it had happened yesterday: The carnage on the battlefields. The medical camps filled with rows upon rows of groaning men. The Valkyrie itself, along with the weapons of mass destruction it had carried to obliterate America's eastern coast.

He'd been willing to die to stop Schmidt from using the Tesseract to kill any more people. For months now, every time Steve snapped out of yet another war flashback that left him shaken and exhausted, he had comforted himself that at least the thing was lost in the ocean where it couldn't do anyone any more harm. And then Nick Fury had strolled into the gym tonight and informed him, cool as a cucumber, that Howard Stark had fished it out of the ocean decades ago, that S.H.I.E.L.D. itself had been playing around with it all this time, and that they'd been so careless that it had fallen into the hands of yet another bully looking to gather more power to himself.

At least S.H.I.E.L.D. had only used it to generate energy. But for some reason Steve couldn't call that a comfort. Too many people knew that the Tesseract was useful for weapons development. It would always be a temptation for less-than-scrupulous men. Why couldn't they have just left well enough alone?

When he made it back to his apartment, after a quick shower and a change of clothes, Steve read through the debriefing packet Fury had left, absorbing it as quickly as he could. When he got to the intel on Loki, though, he had to stop and do a double-take.

Squinting his eyes, he looked at Loki's page again, focusing on one particular line. That couldn't mean what he thought it meant... could it? He looked up, astonished. So _that_ was what Fury had meant by "he's not from around here." He'd assumed the director was simply telling him that Loki wasn't American. Steve blinked several times, and then pulled out his wallet and checked to make sure he had 10 bucks in there. He should have known better than to bet with a man like Nick Fury.

He had just finished reading the last page of the packet when there was a knock at the door. When Steve opened it, a balding man in a suit with a S.H.I.E.L.D. badge clipped to the lapel was standing there.

"Captain Rogers?" he said. "I'm here to pick you up for your mission." His voice was soothing, almost bland, but there was a hint of nervous energy in the way he held himself. He offered his hand to Steve, and when he shook it, Steve noticed the man's hand was slightly sweaty. Definitely nervous. Well, he had plenty of reason to be, with the Tesseract in the hands of an enemy combatant. "I'm Agent Phil Coulson."

"You wrote the report I just read," Steve observed, recognizing the name, and stepped aside to let Coulson in.

"I did." Coulson clasped his hands in front of him loosely, turning to face Steve as he closed the door. "Any questions?"

Steve opened the file again. "So, this Thor and Loki..." he said, wanting to make sure he hadn't misunderstood somehow. "They're from another realm? In another part of space?"

"Right," Coulson said.

"Then... they're aliens."

"Pretty much."

Steve nodded slightly, and then flipped through the pages in the file again, pausing on the one that outlined Dr. Selvig's extraction theory, along with a bunch of gobbledegook about Couloumb barriers and quantum tunneling and anti-proton collisions. He longed to ask Coulson what it all meant, but he held his tongue, hesitant to admit that he still didn't know about this stuff, which he was sure any kid on the street could explain in this time. Well, it probably didn't matter much. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't expect him to operate the Tesseract, just get it back for them.

"You're taking this very well."

Steve glanced up to see Agent Coulson looking at him with bemusement.

"The existence of aliens?" Coulson prompted. "Invading our planet and stealing our stuff? This doesn't surprise you?"

"I assume this is old news," Steve said. He'd so often used his poker face to hide the fact that he didn't understand the things everyone else in this time took for granted, he was starting to do it reflexively now.

"I wouldn't say that," Coulson said mildly. "The public doesn't have a clue. If we're lucky, we'll get this little mess cleaned up fast enough that we won't let the cat out of the bag and cause a global panic." He paused. "Nice to not be the last one to find out for a change, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Steve said, surprised and a little comforted that Coulson understood. He glanced down at the picture of the Tesseract again. "It all kinda makes sense, actually," he said slowly. "There was something about that thing that was... unearthly." He took a deep breath. "So Fury wants this guy — Loki — captured, not killed?"

"Our top priority is to find out where he took the Tesseract," Coulson said. "I don't expect it will be easy. I mean, he's the god of mischief. You know, from the old Norse myths."

"Yeah, he's just as much a god as Johann Schmidt was," Steve said.

Coulson gazed at Steve steadily. "Well, whatever you want to call him, he's Asgardian. They're far stronger than humans. I know your reputation, Captain, probably better than anyone around here, but judging from what I saw in New Mexico..." He hesitated a second. "I just want to be upfront with you about what we're dealing with. I know you're a man who appreciates honesty. I think Loki might be enough to give even you a run for your money."

Steve shrugged slightly. What could Loki do to him that was worse than what had already been done?

Just then Coulson's pocket beeped. He pulled out a slender phone and glanced at it. "Oh, good. Banner's in," he said, looking pleased as he put it away.

"Banner?" Steve said.

"I can fill you in on the way there. If you're in, that is. You ready?"

Steve opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Was Coulson simply asking if he had packed what he needed? Or if he was ready to be put back into combat in general? He tried to picture himself as he had seen Brock Rumlow the first time he had met him, dressed all in black with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on his sleeve and modern combat gear strapped on. Steve wasn't quite seeing it, and yet...

He suddenly realized that ever since he'd opened up the debriefing file, he hadn't had one single thought about his own mental state. The flashbacks and the rage had subsided, thanks to the distraction. He'd been so interested in the mission that he'd even forgotten to look at Peggy's file where it was sitting on the kitchen table three feet away, although the compulsion to do so never seemed to take a vacation.

If he refused the job, he'd have to stay here and go back to all that. Alternatively, he could take care of Loki for these people _before_ he used the Tesseract for whatever mischief he had planned, and undoubtedly save a lot of lives in the process.

It wouldn't be quite the same as saving his own world. He was a stranger now, fighting for a people he no longer knew or understood. But they needed protecting, and he could be the one to do it. He could make himself useful. He could fight an alien with delusions of godhood. It wasn't anything he had ever pictured himself doing, but then again, Johann Schmidt had stripped himself of his humanity so thoroughly that he might as well have been an alien. How different could it be to face Loki?

"I'm ready," Steve said firmly.

A smile spread across Coulson's face. "Fantastic," he said. "I have a car waiting downstairs. We'll be on the jet and in the air in no time. S.H.I.E.L.D. will provide all your gear. Anything else you need to get? We're in a bit of a rush."

Steve patted his pocket, making sure the compass was inside. "I've got everything I need."

"Let's go."

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** A short chapter today, but the next one is an action-packed monster with Loki, Iron Man, Thor and Black Widow! In fact, the next few chapters will take place during the events of "The Avengers," skipping around to fill in some "missing scenes" we didn't get to see. This might be a good time to watch the movie again, if your memory needs refreshing!_

_I welcome reviews!_


	16. Chapter 16

_**Author's note:** Thanks to Distanceincrowdedrooms and Guests for your reviews! I wondered if this story would get fewer hits than my post-"Endgame" story ("The Third Life of Steve Rogers") just because it's set amid the older movies, and it is indeed getting fewer reviews, maybe for that reason, but I looked at the story stats and I am actually getting hundreds of readers for this one. Whoever you all are, thank you for your interest! _

* * *

**Chapter 16**

"We got a hit," reported a bald agent with glasses seated at the computer display, his voice ringing across the helicarrier's bridge. The badge clipped to his suit read _Sitwell_, Steve noted. "Sixty-seven percent match. Wait... cross match, 79 percent."

Steve turned to look at Sitwell, suddenly attentive. So Dr. Banner's trace had worked. His heart beat a little faster. This was it. He was going to be sent back into combat.

"Location?" Coulson asked, going to look over Sitwell's shoulder.

"Stuttgart, Germany," Sitwell answered. "28 Konigstrasse. He's not exactly hiding."

Germany again. Steve was surprised to find himself comforted by that. It would be good to be somewhere familiar. Of course, the last time he'd seen Stuttgart, its beautiful and historic city center had been reduced to a pile of rubble, thanks to dozens of bombardments by the Allies as they sought to destroy the factories creating components for Nazi weaponry. He clearly remembered gazing down at the devastation from the vantage point of a B-17, heart aching on behalf of Dr. Erskine, who had briefly taught at the university there until the Nazis had forced him into service... and sent his wife to Auschwitz, along with thousands more of the city's population.

"Captain?" Fury's tone was grim. "You're up."

Steve met Fury's gaze and nodded seriously. Immediately, Coulson was at his elbow. "This way, Captain," he said, gesturing to the exit. Behind him, Maria Hill briefly met Steve's gaze, and gave him a silent nod of encouragement.

They left the bridge at a trot, Coulson reaching up to touch his earpiece as they went. "Agent Romanoff? We've located Loki," he said. "Time to suit up."

"On my way."

Coulson led Steve to a door with his own name painted in block letters, and ushered him inside. "Everything you need is in there," he said. "I'll get the jet scrambled." He touched his earpiece and began talking to someone else as the door slid shut between them.

Left alone in the room, Steve gazed at the storage compartment that held his Captain America gear, neatly on display as if it were a museum exhibit. A thrill of anticipation went through him, and for the first time in... how long?... he felt a rush of _purpose_ shoot through him. Finally, he had someplace to go and something to do, something that really mattered. Something that wasn't about him. It was a heady feeling, one Steve had deeply missed.

It was spoiled a little by a current of uncertainty moving under the surface. Part of him wished Fury had brought him out into the field sooner, but another part of him worried what would happen when he faced action again. He'd never frozen during a battle, it was true, but then again he wasn't the same man he had been before. The old Steve Rogers was MIA. What if he had a bad episode and broke down in the middle of a combat zone? What if he let everyone down?

_Fury wouldn't have sent me if he didn't think I could handle it,_ he told himself firmly.

He stepped closer to the compartment, his eyes roaming over the clothing. It didn't look much like the last uniform he'd put on as he'd prepared to face Schmidt. That one had had the colors permanently darkened by the grime of combat, with fabric thinning and edges fraying from frequent use and too little time for proper cleaning or repairs. This one was brand-new and all the colors still bright. In fact, it looked less like the combat uniform Howard Stark had created and more like the getup Senator Brandt's people had designed for him to wear on stage.

_This isn't a uniform_, he realized. _It's a costume._

The intensity of the relief that he felt shocked him. So he wasn't being asked to be Captain America. He was being asked to _play_ Captain America.

_"Nothin' to it,"_ he could hear Brandt's aide whispering to him as he shoved a prop shield into Steve's hand. "_Sell off a few bonds, bonds buy bullets, bullets kill Nazis. Bing bang boom, you're an American hero."_

_All I gotta do is recite the lines_, he realized. _Get into character again._ No one would ever need to know that the real Steve Rogers was gone, that someone else had taken his place the day he'd woken up from the ice. Breathing a little faster, he unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off, and began to don his costume, one piece at a time.

Finally, once he had everything but the helmet on, he looked in the mirror. He looked less like a soldier and more like the Captain America depicted by the old comic book artists. The suit fit snugly and conformed perfectly to his body, the material thick and somehow bendable, almost like there was a layer of chainmail between the fabric layers. It must be resistant to melee weaponry, like the uniform Howard Stark had made for him, and maybe even bullet-proof. There were lots of pouches in the belt for grappling lines or knives or whatever else he would need. All in all, it was an odd fusion of practicality and theatrics.

"Bing bang boom," he repeated in a murmur, looking in the mirror at himself. "Nothin' to it."

There was only one thing missing. He looked over at his old shield where it was mounted at the back of his locker, perfectly round and highly polished. He took a deep breath and let it out. The vibranium shield wasn't part of any costume. Never had been. It was probably the realest thing in this room.

Carefully, he took the shield off the mount and held it in both hands, gazing down at it. As always, it felt lighter than it should. The original design had been duplicated, with concentric stripes of red and white surrounding a blue circle with a star in the center. The paint was completely pristine; in fact, it was so fresh he could still smell it. And once again, he was assailed with doubts about the power of this symbol. Would people really respond to it the way Coulson seemed to think? Steve wasn't so sure. Cynicism seemed to be the spirit of this age. He had a sneaking suspicion that a lot of people would sooner laugh at this kind of earnestness than be inspired by it.

But a new idea was growing in the back of his mind: maybe that didn't matter. People were free to believe in the old ideals or not. He didn't need to convince them. If he was the only one who believed anymore... then so be it. He could stand alone.

He moved to attach the shield to his back, and only belatedly realized that the costume had no place to mount the shield. He'd have to wear it on his arm. For some reason, he was reluctant to. He had been intrigued by the shield since the first moment his eyes had fallen on it and after innumerable battles together it had come to feel like an extension of his own body, and yet now he hesitated to wear it? He ended up holding it by the edge in one hand, down by his side, although it felt awkward.

There was only one thing left to do. He dug into the pocket of the slacks he'd taken off and found his compass. He placed it in one of his belt pouches and carefully fastened it shut. It had never been damaged in a battle, and he wasn't going to break that streak today.

He went out into the corridor. Coulson was waiting for him there, and instinctively Steve straightened up into the Captain America stance, shoulders back, feet apart, one gloved hand going to rest on his hip.

Coulson stared at him for a long moment, looking the costume up and down, and Steve felt a flush threatening to creep up. He couldn't tell if Coulson was thinking he looked incredibly ridiculous or incredibly heroic, and it was hard to tell which possibility made him more uncomfortable. But he tried not to let that show; he was in character, after all, and Captain America didn't care about how he looked. He only cared about doing his job the best way he could.

"Is it..." Coulson cleared his throat. "Does it fit okay? Is it... is it what you wanted?" He sounded a little anxious, and Steve remembered that Coulson had helped design the suit.

"It's just what I need to teach Loki a lesson he won't forget," Steve said briskly, and was pleased to find that the Captain America voice popped out right on cue. Apparently it was like riding a bike.

Coulson managed to look both relieved and excited at the same time. After a few seconds, he mostly succeeded in wiping the grin off his face, and held out a handgun in a holster, offering it to Steve.

Steve shook his head. "It'll just get in my way." He'd rarely used guns in battle since learning to use the shield offensively. He needed both hands for that, and his own technique gave him better control, anyway. With the shield, he'd never killed anyone he didn't mean to kill. You couldn't say that about an indiscriminate spray of bullets.

"Okay," Coulson agreed readily, although Steve had half-expected him to argue. The agent's trust in him was puzzling; he seemed to be high up in the command chain, which meant he must have read Hill's reports about the problems Steve had been having these last few months. How could he be more certain than Steve himself that...?

"I can do this," Steve suddenly blurted out, and immediately regretted it. Who was he trying to reassure? Coulson, or himself?

Coulson gazed at him levelly. "Of course you can," he said with perfect sincerity. "You're gonna be great."

Somehow, Steve couldn't help but believe him, and a slow, warm sensation filled his chest unlike anything he'd felt since waking up in this place. Coulson was a good man, and on impulse he opened his mouth to say just that, when the door right behind Coulson suddenly slid open and Agent Romanoff emerged.

She had traded her civilian clothing for her S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, all black except a touch of red at the belt buckle. She had weapons strapped on both thighs, plus a pair of strange-looking wristlets at the cuffs of her sleeves. For the first time, Steve noticed the name on the door of her locker: "Black Widow." A call sign, or a code name? He realized he'd never actually been told what her job description was.

"We've got the jet in Hangar 4 all ready to go," Coulson told her, and Romanoff nodded. "I'll take him from here," she said.

Coulson gave Steve a brief smile. "Go get him, Captain," he said, and Steve hurried to keep up with Romanoff as she set off down the corridor at a brisk pace.

In minutes they had boarded the Quinjet, where a helmeted pilot was already waiting for them in the cockpit. The moment the loading ramp sealed up the cargo area, they took off into the clear blue skies.

Steve expected Romanoff to settle herself into the co-pilot's seat, but to his surprise she stayed back and strapped herself into one of the jump seats next to him. She kept glancing over at Steve as they rocketed through the sky, and a hint of a smile kept curving her lips every time she did.

"_What_?" Steve finally said as she looked over at him yet again, with a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes.

"They fed us a lot of Captain America propaganda," Romanoff said matter-of-factly. "At the school I went to."

"What school was that?"

Romanoff didn't answer for a long moment. "It was in Russia," she said finally. "Or the Soviet Union, I should say, before it collapsed."

"I read about that." He paused. "I'm sorry. It didn't sound like a good time to live there."

Romanoff shrugged one shoulder. "The Soviets were bad at some things — like feeding starving people — but they made up for it by being really good at other things. Like propaganda. Guess what they used to say about you?"

Steve sighed. "I can only imagine."

"Oh, it wasn't bad," Romanoff blithely assured him. "I mean, our countries were on the same side in your day, right? And if there's one thing the Soviets admired, it was power. What's not to like about a super soldier laying waste to German ambitions?"

"Terrific."

"Don't be grumpy. When I was little-" She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "-I thought Captain America was totally rad." She smiled at him teasingly then, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Of course, all that 'rah-rah-America' stuff was a shame. Everyone in Russia knew that _we_ were the ones who deserved credit for your creation. We helped fund the SSR, but those nasty Americans wouldn't let any of our personnel touch Project Rebirth with a 10-foot pole. For some reason, there were... trust issues. I can't imagine why."

"All that propaganda stuff," Steve said uncomfortably. "Sometimes people forget I was an actor."

"I know," Romanoff said coolly. "They taught me to act, too. The KGB. They called me the Black Widow. I was good, too. Really good. The best they had." The mischief had faded from her eyes, and suddenly she looked much older than she was. "The thing about acting is... underneath the costume, there's a real human being underneath, even if most of the audience never stops to think about that." Her eyes went distant. "Even if the actress herself forgets."

Steve studied her seriously for a moment. "So who was underneath your costume?"

Romanoff tried to smile, but didn't quite succeed. "Still working that out." She met his eyes. "To be honest, I think the part your people had you playing — cheesy as it was — was better than the part the Soviets had me play." She scrutinized him closely. "And who's under your costume?"

Steve took a moment to answer, and was surprised to hear himself admit, "I don't know."

Romanoff nodded a little. "Fury and Hill and Coulson think they know," she said. "They think you're going to be another Clint Barton for them." She looked him up and down and added with a hint of amusement, "on steroids."

"Barton?" Steve repeated, the name wringing a bell. "Wasn't he one of the agents Loki compromised? The marksman?"

Romanoff nodded silently.

"You knew him?"

"I know him," she said softly.

"And... am I?" Steve dared to ask. "Another one of him?"

She tilted her head and studied him with narrowed eyes. "Too soon to say. Your reputation says yes, but I have to warn you: I've been lied to so much in my life, I don't give my trust easily."

"But on the off chance everyone's right about you," she went on, "I'm going to ask you a favor."

He looked at her expectantly.

"If Loki sends Barton up against you," Romanoff said, "do me a favor, and don't kill him."

"I don't enjoy killing people," Steve said with a touch of weariness. "I only do it when I have to."

Romanoff shook her head. "That isn't good enough," she said seriously. "You have to promise me." She fixed her eyes on him intently. "We can't lose Barton. He's the best S.H.I.E.L.D. has."

"The file said he never misses," Steve remembered.

"He doesn't," Romanoff said. She paused. "But when I say that he's _good_, I'm not talking about his fighting skills."

Steve was quiet for a moment, thinking that over.

"Okay," he said. "I promise. I won't kill him."

He saw her shoulders visibly relax.

"You believe me," he noted curiously. "I thought you said you didn't give your trust easily."

"If you were lying, I would know," she said calmly. "I'm a spy, Rogers. I can't be damaged by my own weapons."

He nodded slightly. A spy. It made sense now, Romanoff's breezy, almost flirtatious attitude. It was calculated to lower people's defenses and make them feel it was safe to say what was really on their minds. She was pretty good at it, he realized with a start, and his eyes widened with sudden dismay. He'd just admitted to her — someone he'd met only that very day — his deepest, darkest secret: that he didn't know who he was anymore. A flush of shame washed over him. How could he have been so stupid, to let his guard down that far? She'd been trained by the KGB. From what he'd read, manipulation was the name of their game.

His mind raced back along the conversation they'd just had. She'd given him a sob story right off the bat. Made herself vulnerable to him. And like a trusting fool, he'd immediately responded in kind. And for what? All so that she could bat her eyes at him and ask him not to kill Barton? He looked back over at her, and she met his accusing eyes with a weary kind of resignation.

"It's a costume, Rogers," she said with a hint of impatience. "Like yours. Remember?" And with that, she unbuckled herself and went into the cockpit, settling down into the co-pilot seat and putting on a headset.

"Five minutes to Stuttgard," the pilot called back.

Steve immediately shoved his conversation with Romanoff to the back of his mind in a well-disciplined maneuver, and while he was at it, he stowed away the uneasy feeling he had that he might be in over his head. Heading out to go toe to toe with a self-proclaimed god suddenly didn't feel as much like confronting Schmidt as he had so blithely assumed earlier. But none of that mattered now.

It was time to go to work.

He covered his uncertainty by doing an equipment check. He ignored the guns on display — the briefing packet had explained that bullets had been ineffective against Loki at the Joint Dark Energy Mission Facility anyway. He grabbed a parachute pack and put it on, tightening the straps. Now all he needed was a radio. He glanced around the jet, expecting to see a row of handhelds ready to go, but there was nothing like that in sight.

"Where can I find a radio?" he asked.

Romanoff glanced back at him. "You have communications built into your helmet," she explained. "It runs off satellites in orbit. Better reliability and range than a radio."

Steve frowned. The receiver couldn't possibly be that tiny, could it? He reached back and pulled the hood up over his head, adjusting the helmet until it fit snugly and comfortably over his ears and around his eyes. Romanoff flipped a switch in front of her and said "Secure channel 4." He heard her voice directly in his ear, the audio coming in crystal clear.

"Channel secure," he responded automatically, and his voice came out of a speaker somewhere in the cockpit. There wasn't even a hint of static.

"We're coming up on Loki's location," the pilot warned, and Romanoff turned her attention back to the controls.

Steve stood behind the two of them, leaning forward to get a good look as they swooped down over Stuttgart's city center. He didn't know what he expected to see — the same apocalyptic scene he'd viewed back in 1944? — but of course the Germans would have rebuilt by now. Stuttgart would no doubt be a mass of soulless modern architecture, all metal and glass and towering skyscrapers, like every other city nowadays.

The Quinjet descended through the wispy clouds, and the central plaza came into clear view.

Steve drew back in surprise, and for one crazy moment, he thought he'd gone through a time machine like the one H.G. Wells had dreamed up.

Stuttgart's city center wasn't a pile of rubble. Nor was it a soulless modern replacement. In fact, it looked much like it must have before the Nazis had taken over. A large stone plaza, lit by lamps and edged by restaurants, was guarded at one end by a baroque palace, the area inside its three wings graced by fountains and a sprawling garden. At the other end of the plaza was the old museum, ornately columned and illuminated by moving searchlights.

Steve gazed down at it, amazed. The old city center had been wholly restored from the bombings. All of it just the way it had been before, right down to the soaring heights of St. Eberhard's just across the street, which he'd last seen as a bombed-out wreck. The whole area was filled with throngs of people enjoying their evening in peace and safety.

There was just one more detail to confirm. His eyes darted west, searching for one building in particular. When he found the site, he suddenly exhaled in relief. The building that had once housed the Nazi Party Headquarters was gone... and had been replaced by a movie theater, with families coming and going through its doors. Steve closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in an unexpected sense of gratification.

Something he'd saved had actually _stayed_ saved.

"Look at _that_," the pilot said in dismay. He had switched on a screen that showed a closer view of the plaza below.

Steve leaned forward to gaze at the screen, which was showing a new source of illumination at the edge of the plaza. They watched as a police car, lights spinning as it turned a corner, suddenly flipped over in mid-air and went sliding down the street upside-down, haloed by a strange bluish glow.

Romanoff touched the controls and zoomed in on a man entering the plaza from the direction of the museum, brandishing a long staff that was also glowing blue. Steve recognized him from the briefing packet: Loki. The people in the plaza began surging in multiple directions like the waves in an ocean, trying to get away from him.

"He's taking hostages," Romanoff said grimly.

Steve held his shield in both hands for a moment and took a deep breath, bracing himself. This was it. He slid his left arm through the straps and tightened each one with a jerk. The leather was stiff and new and embraced his arm snugly, so that once again it felt like the shield was a part of him. He waited with a little trepidation, half-expecting to have his war flashbacks triggered by this potent reminder of his past, but all that came to mind was Peggy pointing a smoking pistol at him and saying acidly: "Yes, I think it works."

Against his will, he smiled.

"You ready for this, Cap?" Romanoff asked without turning around as the Quinjet descended toward the plaza.

"Probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?" he asked seriously.

Romanoff jerked her head around in surprise. Then she laughed lightly, looking both surprised and delighted by the joke. But not as startled as Steve himself was. Where had _that_ come from? That wasn't a Captain America line... that was pure Steve Rogers.

Steve felt a brief surge of wild joy. _He was still in there._ Buried deep, maybe, but still alive.

Maybe he wouldn't have to act this part forever. Just long enough to get over the hump.

"Where do you want us to drop you?" Romanoff asked.

"Right on top of him."

Romanoff hit a control, and the door in the back of the jet opened. Without hesitation, Steve took a running leap off the edge and plummeted toward the ground. He waited to deploy his chute until the last possible moment, wanting to shave off as much time from his approach as possible, but as he fell he saw something in the plaza that widened his eyes in consternation.

There wasn't just one man brandishing a glowing blue staff. There were _four_ of them. All identical, stationed at each corner of the plaza, blocking the panicked people from leaving the area. He could hear their screams now, even over the noise of the wind rushing past his ears. As he fell toward the plaza, he saw them all begin to fall to their knees.

Steve reached up and pulled the cord. His chute deployed, and abruptly he slowed down, giving him a chance to scan the terrain and make a rapid decision about where to come down. The four Lokis couldn't all be real. Somehow he was creating an illusion, one that was startlingly convincing, but it didn't take Steve long to decide which one was the real Loki.

Obviously, it was the one flapping his jaw.

Loki was raising his arms, strolling through the crowd and pontificating like a politician delivering a stump speech. He was wearing golden armor and a flowing green cape, with an enormous helmet on his head sprouting long, curving horns. And Steve had thought _his_ costume bordered on the theatrical. The people knelt meekly before Loki, their attention fixed on him, but Steve was close enough now to see that they weren't impressed by his performance... they were _terrified_.

Except one man.

An elderly man was rising stiffly to his feet, turning to face Loki only a short distance away. He straightened his back, a lone figure in the midst of a sea of submission. As Steve watched, Loki pointed his staff — actually, he saw now that it was more like a scepter — at the old man, and the blue light at the tip flared. The old man's eyes widened with fear, but he stood his ground, making no attempt to run.

Suddenly Steve didn't care that these weren't his people, that this wasn't his time, that this wasn't his world to save. There was only a white-hot conviction that he was _not_ going to let anyone die today. Not one single person.

Without hesitation he pulled the emergency release, and the parachute straps snapped and whipped away from him. He dropped like a stone and hit the ground in a crouch right in front of the old man just as Loki fired his weapon.

An energy blast struck his shield and bounced off, shooting unerringly right back toward the source. It struck Loki dead center, sending him flopping onto his belly. Several people cried out in alarm. Steve straightened up slowly, gazing through the curls of smoke rising from his shield.

Grimacing, Loki raised himself to his hands and knees, scepter still in hand, and met Steve's eyes with a furious expression. He looked like he could be human, with a pale complexion and dark glossy hair, except he had a mocking, almost elfin look to his face. Like Steve had always imagined the malicious faerie folk from the old Irish tales his mother had told him when he was small. This guy wasn't a fairy tale, though; he was very real, and and very dangerous. Steve could feel a surge of righteous anger flowing, and he gladly embraced the focus it gave him, taking care only to keep it under his usual tight control.

"You know," Steve said loudly, striding toward Loki, "the last time I was in Germany and saw a man standing above everyone else, we ended up disagreeing." All around him, people were beginning to rise to their feet as though a spell had been broken.

"The _soldier_," Loki said with disgust. He got back on his feet, and laughed derisively. "The man out of time."

So he'd known what to expect. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents Loki had brainwashed back at the Dark Energy facility — maybe Clint Barton himself — must have warned him who might be sent to stop him. Well, good. No need to waste time on introductions, then.

"I'm not the one who's out of time," Steve said, and behind him he could hear the Quinjet swooping low to hover over the plaza.

"Loki, drop the weapon and stand down," Romanoff said over the loudspeaker.

Instantly, Loki sent a blast of blue energy up into the sky, and the Quinjet's engine roared as it dodged the blast. Taking advantage of Loki's divided attention, Steve flung his shield at the man's chest, careful to use only a fraction of his strength. He was acutely aware of the need to capture rather than kill, so they could question him about the location of the Tesseract, and he wasn't sure how much of a beating Loki could take. Coulson had indicated that Asgardians were more resilient than humans, but to what degree? Better safe than sorry.

His shield bounced off Loki's breastplate, scattering sparks, and came back to Steve's hand. As abruptly as a thunderclap, everyone in the plaza scattered like birds in the wind, screaming and panicking. Already charging forward, Steve saw in a flash that Loki hadn't so much as taken a step backward from the blow. Guess it was safe to hit a little harder than that.

Steve swung his fist, aiming for the gap in the helmet and neatly connecting with Loki's left eye. Loki's head snapped to the side, but he stayed on his feet, and shot Steve an annoyed glance just before swinging his scepter in kind. Steve had just enough time to raise his shield, but the impact staggered him back. Instantly Loki swung the scepter again in the opposite direction, flinging Steve's shield arm outward, leaving his torso exposed. A third swing hit him in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him, and Steve went tumbling backward, managing to land in an alert crouch a short distance away.

He realized in a flash that Loki had experience fighting opponents carrying shields. That was something Steve had never encountered on the battlefield before, thanks to his unusual choice of weapon. He'd just lost one of his more dependable advantages.

Gritting his teeth, he flung his shield from his crouching position, and while Loki was turning to deflect it, charged toward him full-speed. He threw a punch, but Loki ducked it and swung out his scepter in a wide sweeping movement. Steve bent backward, catching himself on the ground with one hand, and felt the scepter whoosh harmlessly overhead. Loki instantly recovered and swung it back the other direction, but this time Steve was expecting that and bobbed down and to the left. Loki missed again, and Steve felt a fresh surge of confidence. He was starting to get the hang of how Loki moved.

The head of Loki's scepter struck the ground, sending out blue sparks, and while his weapon was briefly entangled Steve delivered a kidney punch, hitting much harder than he had last time. Unfortunately, his fist connected with solid metal: some piece of armor he hadn't been able to see, hidden by the green cape. He grimaced as pain shot up his arm, and before he could recover Loki twisted to the side and whacked him across the back with the scepter, a solid hit that once again sent Steve flying into the air. He came down onto the stone plaza hard, face down. He and Loki were in an open space now; most of the people in the plaza had fled.

Grunting, Steve pushed himself up on his arms, but Loki was already standing over him, pressing the butt of the scepter imperiously against the back of Steve's head.

"Kneel!" he ordered.

_You've got to be kidding,_ Steve thought. Did he seriously expect a surrender already? They were only just getting started.

"Not today!" he retorted, batting away the scepter and then jumping to his feet, launching into a spinning kick in a direction Loki obviously didn't expect, because he actually managed to connect with the side of his head.

Loki staggered back and then growled angrily, grabbing Steve bodily and hurling him into the air. Steve hit the ground rolling. It hurt, but he barely noticed because he had just gotten an idea. If his strongest blows weren't enough to lay out Loki on the ground — and they apparently weren't — then he knew what he needed to do next. If he could bounce his shield off-

A horrible sound coming from the sky interrupted his train of thought. Rolling onto his back, Steve looked up in surprise at the Quinjet hovering over the plaza, its loudspeaker blaring something that almost resembled music, although the "singer" was screaming something about... shooting to kill? What the hell was Romanoff doing? Was this her idea of a distraction? Loki was staring up at the Quinjet too, looking as repulsed as Steve was by the noise.

A bright flare of light streaked across the sky, heading toward them both. Steve had only just enough time to recognize what it was a moment before a second flare of light shot out and struck Loki full-on in the chest.

Iron Man landed in the plaza with a metallic clank, down on one knee with one fist braced on the stones, and Loki flew backward and hit the steps behind him with an audible _crack_.

For one horrifying moment, Steve feared Loki had just broken his back, that he was going to die without breathing a word about the Tesseract's location, and he scrambled to his feet, staring at Iron Man in disbelief. Had they just lost everything? The Tesseract... they couldn't lose track of the Tesseract. Nothing else mattered.

Iron Man rose up into a battle stance and pointed both arms at Loki, his armored suit flaring light as various weapons popped up from his shoulders and back.

"Make your move, Reindeer Games," a man's voice said, echoing a little from inside the helmet. Steve came to stand by Iron Man's side.

Loki sat up painfully — to Steve's great relief — looking wan and defeated. He slowly put up his hands in an apparent surrender, and a golden glow spread across his body until gradually his battle helmet and his scepter disappeared into thin air.

"Good move," Iron Man said with wry approval.

Iron Man — with Tony Stark inside, presumably — didn't even glance at Steve. The helmet on his head made him look like he had a permanent scowl on his face. It was impossible to know what Stark's true expression was inside there, just like with Schmidt's goggled Hydra goons... but Steve shut down that train of thought instantly and worked to control his distaste. He wasn't being fair. Like his father, Tony Stark was doing what he could to help with the war effort. His suit of armor... it was just a shield, one that covered his whole body. Steve didn't know much about mechanical engineering, but the suit looked like it was cleverly constructed. It was obviously battle-tested and being put to good use.

But why hadn't Fury told him backup was coming? They could have coordinated their attacks. Suppose he and Stark had hit each other with friendly fire by mistake? It was only pure luck that they hadn't.

"Mr. Stark," Steve said politely, determined to start off on the right foot with the man, even if Fury had bungled their meeting.

Stark nodded toward him ever so slightly. "Captain."

"Agent Romanoff," Stark continued, and this time Steve heard the voice coming through his own helmet. Somehow Stark had tapped into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s com system. "I've got a package for you. I'm about to truss it up like a Christmas turkey."

"You always bring me the nicest presents, Mr. Stark," Romanoff said.

"Don't even start with the sweet talk," Stark said lightly. "You're still fired."

The Quinjet engines grew louder as it descended toward the plaza. Steve glanced around. Most of the civilians had fled, although a few were still cowering insensibly on the ground or behind lampposts. Steve realized they would have to be evacuated from the area before the Quinjet could safely land. Suddenly, his eye fell on the one man remaining in the plaza who was not frozen by fear. In fact, he was standing straight and tall despite his age, keeping his eyes locked on Loki as Stark bound the prisoner's hands. In a flash, Steve recognized him as the same old man he had saved from Loki's attack only a few minutes before.

Decisively, he moved closer to the old man and caught his eye.

"Flugzeuge werden auf dem platz landen," Steve said, warning him that the Quinjet was going to land in the plaza, and then asked him in German if he could help clear the area.

"Ja," the man said readily.

"Halte sie ruhig," Steve added. "Alles unter kontrolle." Keep them calm, everything is under control.

The man nodded, and turned to speak in voluble German to the people still cowering on the ground, ushering them gently but firmly away from the plaza. Satisfied that the man had everything under control, Steve turned back to keep an eye on Loki.

"Kapitän?" the old man called back, and Steve turned back to look at him questioningly.

"It is good to have you back," the man said in perfect English, and with the utmost dignity he gave Steve a solemn salute.

Steve couldn't help but smile. "It's good to be back," he admitted as he saluted in return, and he felt a flash of something that felt almost like happiness. Could he have said as much yesterday? Probably not.

He rejoined Stark, and together they watched over a glum-faced Loki as the Quinjet landed. It seemed like the fight was over, but Steve felt inexplicably uneasy, and he trusted his instincts well enough to listen to them.

The weaponry in Stark's suit was impressive, and while the percussive blast he had unleashed had certainly thrown Loki back with a respectable amount of force, Steve was certain it hadn't been all _that_ much more powerful than his own blows had been. And yet Loki had surrendered after taking only one shot, despite the fact that he wasn't even visibly injured.

Something wasn't right. Loki had just put on a deliberately public display, complete with costumes, props and a whole lot of bluster. A man with an ego that oversized wouldn't surrender so easily, especially in front of an audience; he would find it too humiliating. Which meant something else was going on here.

The natural conclusion was that Loki had intended to lose the fight. But why?

Steve immediately thought of his own plan to be captured during the final assault on Hydra's base of operations, knowing he would be brought to Johann Schmidt to have his "failure" rubbed in his face, and in the meantime the Howling Commandos had simply tracked Steve's location, enabling them to aim their attack directly into the heart of the base when the moment was right. Could Loki, too, have allies waiting in the wings? As powerful as he was, it seemed incredible that he would attempt to steal something as valuable as the Tesseract with no backup.

Frowning, Steve scanned the plaza and then the skies above, but he saw nothing amiss. Was he being paranoid? Loki had arrived through the power of the Tesseract. If he could bring in allies that way, surely he would have already done it. Instead, he was here in Germany, alone, playing games with them. He hadn't even brought in the brainwashed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents for backup during the fight.

Norse myth portrayed Loki as a god of mischief. But what was his motivation for stirring up this kind of trouble? If he wanted the Tesseract so badly, why not simply take it and leave Earth the same way he had came? Why stick around at all?

**TO BE CONTINUED**

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_**Author's note: **__I don't speak German, but like Dr. Strange, I am fluent in Google Translate. Hopefully I didn't butcher those lines of German, but if I did, I hope any German readers will forgive me. :-) I'd love to know what you think now that my story is meshing with the movie; leave a review and share your thoughts!_

_Next chapter: Hello, Thor!_


	17. Chapter 17

_**Author's note: **Thanks to sofiarose613, distanceinacrowdedroom and Guests for your reviews!_

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**Chapter 17**

Steve Rogers and Tony Stark watched in shock as a man in a red cape grabbed Loki by the neck and grimly charged down the Quinjet's ramp, leaping out in midair into the thunderstorm swirling over Germany's Black Forest — taking their prisoner with him.

"Now there's _that_ guy," Stark muttered through his helmet.

"Another Asgardian?" Romanoff called over her shoulder.

Steve had only gotten a brief glimpse of the man's face during a lightning flash, but he instantly recognized him from the briefing packet: Thor.

"That guy's a friendly!" he shouted over the noise of the wind, but a questioning tone crept into his voice without him intending it. Thor had just clocked Stark with his hammer with the casual attitude of a man swatting a pesky fly. Yet Coulson's report had been clear that Thor had protected innocents from the Destroyer, and even befriended several people during his brief stay on Earth.

Guess he was in a bad mood this time.

In the Norse myths, Thor was often portrayed as rash and impulsive. Steve wasn't sure how much of that was true, but he was powerful, and he sensed they'd have to tread carefully with the man. They'd have a job of it explaining who they were and what was going on, but maybe they could persuade Thor to be on their side. There was hope; Thor's furious expression had made it all too clear that he wasn't on Loki's side, at least. A little diplomacy might go a long way.

"Doesn't matter," Stark said dismissively. "If he frees Loki or kills him, the Tesseract's lost." He moved to jump out of the jet.

"Stark! We need a plan!" Steve shouted. If Stark did something to make the situation worse...

"I have a plan," Stark said, turning back slightly. "_Attack_." His thrusters flared, and seconds later he disappeared into the storm.

Yeah. Something like that.

Moving decisively, Steve seized a parachute pack and began strapping it on, feeling another surge of irritation at Fury. It was bad enough that he hadn't informed Steve that Stark was coming, but he also hadn't made it clear who was in command out here in the field. Steve didn't mind if it wasn't him, as long as someone competent was making decisions, but this situation was untenable. Stark hadn't even bothered to consult with him, much less include him in the operation. He obviously didn't think he needed Steve's help.

"I'd sit this one out, Cap," Romanoff advised, glancing back at him.

Great. Apparently _no one_ thought he could do this. And given the ineffectiveness of his initial attack on Loki, maybe they had a point.

But when had that ever stopped him before?

"I don't see how I can," he answered, tightening the parachute straps.

"These guys come from legends, they're basically gods," Romanoff pointed out.

Reflexively he answered in Captain America's voice, to bolster his own confidence as much as hers: "There's only one God, ma'am, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't dress like that."

He took a running leap, and for the second time that day jumped out of an airplane.

It wasn't hard to find them. Iron Man's thrusters left golden streaks in the air as he zoomed just above the treetops, and bolts of lightning were zagging down from the clouds directly onto his position. Thor, no doubt. It took Steve longer to spot Loki as he pulled the cord and the parachute slowed his fall, but eventually he caught a glimpse of a golden gleam; Loki's armor reflecting the light from the battle. Loki was just sitting at the top of a cliff, watching the fight with a smug smile plastered across his face, not even trying to escape in the confusion. What was that all about?

Steve landed deftly on the tip of a shattered tree trunk, detaching the chute cords in one smooth movement so that the fabric drifted down to the ground. Thor and Stark were standing toe to toe on the ground now, slugging it out like a couple of boxers at the Saturday night fights. Steve sighed, and pulled the shield off his arm.

"Hey!" he shouted, tossing his shield so that it bounced off Thor's head and Stark's chest and zipped back to his hand. "That's _enough_!"

They both turned to look at him, startled enough to pause the slugfest, and Steve leapt down to land cat-like on the forest floor. Maybe now they could lay down their weapons and have a civilized conversation. He glanced up at the cliff, making sure Loki was still in sight.

"Now I don't know what you're planning on doing here-" he began, addressing Thor.

Thor was clearly in a bad temper, thanks to his tussle with Stark. "I've come here to put an end to Loki's schemes!" he shouted.

"Then prove it," Steve said calmly. "Put down that hammer."

"Yeah, no, bad call. He loves his ham-" Stark said, but Thor shut him up with one swing of his hammer, not even bothering to look at Stark as he went flying backwards.

"You want me to put the hammer down?" Thor demanded. Steve's eyes widened as Thor took a furious flying leap into the air toward him, raising his hammer in a way that made his intentions very, very plain.

There was no time for Steve to wonder just how powerful that hammer was; there was only time to lift his shield and crouch defensively beneath it.

Hammer struck shield.

There was a deafening GONG, as if Steve's head was right inside a clanging church bell, and from beneath his protective umbrella he saw a massive shockwave blow outward, tearing down the trees around them like so many matchsticks. A few moments later, Thor's body hit the ground with a heavy thump.

The smoke from the battle blew away, sucked outward by the retreating soundwave. A sudden silence fell.

Slowly, painfully, the three of them got to their feet again. The felled trees were fanned out around them as if a giant had smashed his fist down into a pile of toothpicks. Stark and Thor surveyed the mess for a moment, and Steve thought he detected a hint of sheepishness in their postures.

"Are we done here?" Steve asked.

There was a long pause. Finally Thor pointed at Steve's shield, looking both cautious and curious.

"What _is_ that?" he asked.

Steve slid the shield off his arm, moving slowly so as not to startle Thor, and held it up for him to see. "Vibranium shield."

"Actually," Stark interjected unexpectedly, as the front of his helmet popped open, revealing his face, "I think from now on we should call it the Liberty Bell." He reached up to rub both ears, wincing. "I swear I can still hear it ringing. Is that normal?"

Steve permitted himself a moment of relief that no one was blowing things up or zapping anyone with lightning, at least for now. Steve met Thor's eye meaningfully and then gently dropped the shield, handle side up, on the ground in front of him. He wanted Thor to see he was willing to disarm first, but he also hedged his bet; it was a simple maneuver to stomp on the edge of the shield and flip it back up to his arm if he needed it.

Steve turned to give Stark a significant look, and after a long pause, Stark said grudgingly, "Jarvis, power down weapons systems." The whine in his suit quieted as some of the mechanisms inside shut down.

Thor looked at them both warily, and then slowly, cautiously, he bent slightly and laid the hammer on the ground, with the handle pointing straight up within his easy reach.

Well, it was a start.

"My name is Steve Rogers," Steve said. "I understand we have you to thank for helping us with the situation in New Mexico last year."

Thor looked slightly mollified at this, and Steve took a moment to be grateful Coulson had briefed him properly. Sometimes commanding officers forgot how crucial that was.

"Are you the leader of this world?" Thor asked, turning slightly toward him.

"I'm the protector of this world," Steve corrected, and instinctively he moved his shoulders back into the Captain America stance, his hands going to rest on his belt near the buckle. "Along with Mr. Stark here," he added politely, nodding toward him.

"I've been protecting this world since before you were born, mortal," Thor said, sounding singularly unimpressed.

"Dude, you have _no_ idea how old this guy is," Stark broke in. "He's like the Crypt Keeper."

"I'd like to know what your intentions are today," Steve continued, ignoring Stark's comment, not least of all because he had no idea what it meant. He glanced up at the cliff and saw that Loki was still at his perch, although his smug smile had been replaced by a slightly concerned frown as he looked down on their parley.

"I've come to put an end to Loki's schemes," Thor repeated, but although he was still speaking louder than was really necessary, he seemed slightly less infuriated than before.

"So did we," Steve said calmly. "Loki took something valuable from us, and-"

"I know what he took," Thor interrupted. "The Tesseract. It does not belong to you, my father left it on Midgard for safekeeping centuries ago. The guardians failed in their mission. It's going home with me."

"Are Asgardians hard of hearing, or just slow in the head?" Stark demanded with more than a touch of sarcasm. "What did I just say about taking my stuff?"

"The important thing is that we get it away from Loki," Steve said loudly, cutting off the argument decisively. "I think we can all agree it isn't safe with him. Once we've done that, we can decide on the next step."

"What do you suggest?" Thor asked, turning to face him fully and folding his arms expectantly.

"We should take him to the helicarrier," Stark answered before Steve could. Thor shot him a confused look, and Stark clarified: "It's our flying base. Sort of a castle in the clouds. You know, like Asgard."

Thor laughed shortly. "It's nothing like Asgard, metal man."

"You haven't even seen it," Stark said. "They have fighter jets and scanning equipment and weapons of all shapes and sizes... even one of those vending machines with the little baggies of organic blueberries. Do you have _those_ on Asgard?" He arched his eyebrows at Thor.

Was Stark capable of taking _anything_ seriously? Steve was beginning to wonder. He glanced up once more to make sure Loki was still at the top of the cliff, and felt a jolt of alarm shoot through him.

"He's running!" Steve shouted, and instantly he took off on foot, heading for the foot of the cliff, eyes immediately darting up to seek out handholds up the face of the rock. Behind him, he heard the distinctive sound of Iron Man's thrusters, and a moment later Stark soared over him, boots flaring, zooming straight to the top of the cliff. Steve had to suppress a moment's aggravation at his own slower pace, a feeling he had not experienced since the day of his transformation. He had thought he was ready for this mission, but so far he had felt nothing but flat-footed. He had become used to being the fastest and the strongest, and now he was being served a big slice of humble pie. Well, it would probably do him good.

"Can you fly?" Thor shouted, unexpectedly appearing alongside Steve, matching his long strides as his red cape flared out behind him.

"No!"

Thor seized Steve by the wrist in a powerful grip. In his other hand, he began to whirl his hammer in a tight circle, making a heavy whooshing sound, and then he suddenly flung his hand upward toward the sky. Steve realized what was going to happen an instant before it did, and desperately grasped Thor's wrist in return just in the nick of time.

The momentum of the hammer flung them up off the face of the earth, pulling them unerringly toward the top of the cliff, Steve hanging on to Thor's wrist as his legs dangled toward the rapidly retreating ground below. Their speed was terrific, the wind tearing against their clothing, and in one wild, joyful moment, Steve realized he was _flying_.

Thor glanced down at him and, seeing Steve's reaction, a broad smile lit up his face, as bright and brief as a flash of lightning. _He loves the hammer_, Stark had said, and suddenly Steve understood why.

They soared up over the edge of the cliff. Stark hadn't waited for them; he was unleashing beams of light from his palms, knocking Loki roughly to the ground.

"Drop me behind Loki!" Steve shouted up to Thor. "I'll cover his retreat."

Thor took him very literally, and dropped him a good 30 feet above the ground. Steve instinctively balled up, landing shield-first and rolling smoothly to his feet.

Thor came down in a power landing at the same instant Loki, his face twisted into a snarl, unleashed a bolt of blue light from his scepter, which struck Thor in the chest and sent him flying back. Steve was startled; Thor seemed so sturdy that he had half-expected Loki's scepter to be ineffective against him. Apparently the blue stone powering the scepter really packed a wallop, even against other Asgardians.

Loki was ignoring Steve in favor of launching several blue bolts at Stark, who took off and narrowly avoided the first, while the second struck his legs and left him tumbling end-over-end until he struck a tree with a loud clank and fell to the ground in a metallic heap.

Steve had already launched his shield at Loki's head to buy Stark time to recover before Loki hit him again. It bounced off Loki's helmet just as uselessly as before, but it did draw his attention. He shot a blast at Steve, who caught his shield and raised it up just in time. The blast ricocheted and Loki jumped aside, barely avoiding it.

Steve quickly took stock of Thor and Stark. They had both just gotten back on their feet, and now the three of them were surrounding Loki, who whirled from side to side, pointing the scepter threateningly at each of them in turn.

"Together this time!" Steve shouted at the other two.

Loki turned to give him a mocking smile.

"Teamwork everyone!" he said, aping Steve's tone. "It's a wonder you don't choke on your own pomposity," he added scathingly.

But from behind Loki, Thor suddenly flashed a smile at Steve, holding up his hammer significantly. Instantly, Steve understood.

"Stark," he said very softly, holding his shield up to cover his mouth, eyes still locked on Loki's. He hoped the comm system Romanoff had bragged about was good enough to pick up a whisper. "On my signal, hit him as hard as you can. Aim at his feet."

"His _feet_?" Stark hissed back through the comm, pointing his arm at Loki, his armor even more dented and scratched than after his brawl with Thor. "I'm not gonna hit Mr. Artful Dodger here anywhere but his smug little _face_."

"His feet," Steve insisted. "On my signal. Ready?"

He charged toward Loki, purposely telegraphing his movements. Loki smiled crookedly as Steve flung his shield with all his strength toward Loki, and he raised his scepter in preparation to block it.

But the shield missed Loki's head by a foot, and Loki smiled mockingly, pointing his scepter at Steve instead and unleashing a blast of blue energy. Steve threw himself to the side, just dodging it, and yelled, "Now!"

To his relief, Stark actually listened and launched a missile at Loki's feet at the same instant Thor swung his hammer, striking the edge of Steve's shield in mid-air and sending it straight to the back of Loki's head. Shield and explosion hit Loki from opposite directions at the same instant, and he was slammed unceremoniously to the ground, getting a mouthful of dirt. His scepter flew out of his hand and skittered to a stop right at Steve's feet.

In a flash, Thor leaped forward and laid his hammer on Loki's back. The weapon must have been even heavier than it looked, because Loki squirmed uselessly beneath it, disarmed and unable to get up. Steve took a deep breath of relief and planted his boot on top of Loki's scepter, just to be safe. He didn't understand how Loki could make it disappear and reappear out of thin air, and he didn't like not knowing what he was dealing with. He put his hand up to the side of his helmet. "Agent Romanoff, do you copy?" he said.

"Loud and clear," her voice came into his helmet.

"We have Loki again and we're ready for transport," Steve said, pulling the compass out from a pouch at his belt and looking at it. "Our location is approximately one and a half miles south-southwest of-"

"I know where you are, Cap," Romanoff interrupted. "There's a GPS in your suit. We'll be right there." Steve blinked a couple of times. GPS? He felt a twinge of exasperation with himself. All the studying he'd been doing since the day he'd come out of the ice, and there was still so much he didn't know. Would he ever catch up to everyone else? Would he ever stop being the odd man out?

The Quinjet roared into view and settled down a short distance from them. Thor picked up his hammer and hauled Loki roughly to his feet, pushing him forward into the Quinjet, followed closely by Stark. Steve stooped to pick up Loki's scepter and his shield and boarded last, frowning slightly as Loki meekly let Thor push him down into a seat and have his wrists bound. He felt certain that once again, Loki had permitted himself to be taken, and he wanted to know why. It seemed clear that the man had done nothing but put on a performance since the moment he had showed up. What was he hiding?

The Quinjet took off and headed for the helicarrier at top speed. With Loki bound and Thor and Stark both keeping a close eye on him, Steve's eyes drifted down to the scepter he held in his hand. The staff was long and smooth, with no sign of a trigger or button or any indication of how Loki activated it. Frowning, Steve studied the head of the scepter more closely. The blue gem at the tip was mesmerizing; there were strange lights within, sparkling and undulating. At times he could almost swear there were flashes of yellow light deep in its heart, the color so bright and pure that it didn't even look green through the blue haze.

Staring at the moving colors, Steve felt strange; a little light-headed, maybe, like he hadn't fully caught his breath yet, although he should have recovered from the exertion of the battle by now. He had certainly fought longer and harder many times before. But now his heart was beating too fast, and his palms felt sweaty. He gripped the handle of the staff a little harder, not wanting it to slip from his grasp, and waited for the sensation to pass.

It didn't. It intensified, and what was worse, it was starting to feel all too familiar.

_Oh, please, no,_ he thought, his heart dropping down to his toes. _Not here. Not now._ He'd just made it through two fights without a hint of his symptoms. If anything, he'd felt better since being deployed. More like his old self. But it was unmistakable now. The panic was starting to seize him. He was going to have an episode.

_Not here, not here, not here._

He realized he was still holding the compass in his other hand, and he quickly flipped it open and fixated on Peggy's photo, trying to steady his ragged breathing. It felt like an asthma attack, only he knew there was nothing wrong with his lungs._ Just breathe in and out. In and out. It always passes. Just wait for it._

Suddenly, he jumped; Stark was standing right next to him, although Steve hadn't noticed him approaching. "Didn't you hear Romanoff? Compasses are obsolete," Stark explained in his not-so-helpful way, reaching out toward Steve's compass, whether to point at it or take it out of his hand, Steve wasn't sure, but instinctively he pulled it in tight against his chest, fist closing around it and snapping the lid shut. Stark was the last person on earth he wanted looking at that photo.

"Touchy, are we?" Stark asked.

"Are all your warriors this disrespectful to you?" Thor asked Steve, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"He isn't my-" Steve began.

"Yeah, I work alone, Lion-o," Stark said loudly. "Do I really strike you as the yes-sir, no-sir type?" He saluted sarcastically, his armor making faint mechanical sounds with the movement.

Thor frowned. "Why do you call me a lion?" he asked, sounding vaguely irritated.

"_Lion-o_," Stark repeated. "You know, 'Thundercats, ho?'"

Thor looked at Steve questioningly, who was equally mystified but felt too unwell to even care right now.

Stark rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me _both_ of you slept through the '80s," he said.

"I brought a gag for Loki," Thor said, glowering at Stark. "Perhaps I should have brought two."

Steve stirred slightly, knowing he had to speak up and head this off before it turned into yet another brawl between the other two, but first he had to get a grip on himself. He stared fixedly at the gem in the scepter, straining for a little self-control, and this time he was certain he saw a yellow flash deep inside. It was like-

Like a blaze of fire. In a flash, he was there again: in Schmidt's headquarters, staring down the Hydra fanatic who was shooting fire from a flame-thrower, trapping Steve in the corridor. Until Peggy had come, tommy gun blazing, blowing up the fuel tanks strapped to the soldier's back. She'd rescued him. In more ways than one. And he had gone to her, wanting to thank her — wanting to _kiss_ her right then and there, and thinking timidly that maybe she wanted him to — but all he'd been able to get out was the lame accusation: "You're late."

"Weren't you about to-" Peggy began, looking at him a little uncertainly.

"Right," he said, remembering. He was supposed to be getting Schmidt.

And then she was shot.

A bullet hole ripped through Peggy's chest, a bloodstain instantly blossoming through her jacket. She dropped, and Steve barely caught her in time, lowering her to the ground. Around the corner grenades were exploding and men were shouting in desperation, but he didn't care. All he could see was Peggy, and the life draining out of her eyes. She stirred slightly, looking up at him, and tried to speak. He leaned closer, desperate to hear her voice just one more time.

"Hail... Hydra..." she whispered, and then slumped in his arms, her eyes sliding shut.

Steve's shaking fists clenched around the scepter, and he couldn't stop a soft, pained grunt from escaping his lips even as the awful images faded from his mind. _Not here, not here, not here._ He passed a hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat, and then glanced up, hoping no one was paying enough attention to him to notice what was happening.

He found that only Loki was looking at him, a tiny crooked smile tugging at one corner of his lips. Steve was really beginning to hate that smug smile. A slow red rage crept across his vision. Loki was the cause of all this. If it weren't for him, the Tesseract would still be safely in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s custody, and Steve himself would be safely home. Not _really_ home, of course, but at least in his own apartment, where he could fight his demons in privacy.

No, he'd be home, truly home, if not for Johann Schmidt and _his_ obsession with the Tesseract. It was really the Tesseract that was to blame. There was something about it that turned men into monsters. Steve looked down at the strange gem glimmering in Loki's staff and suddenly wondered: is this powerful enough to destroy the cube?

"Wake up, Rogers," Romanoff said, tapping his shoulder and making him jump. "We're here."

Steve looked up, blinking. The jet had landed on the helicarrier. A security detail of helmeted S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were escorting Loki away. Thor and Stark had already disappeared. Steve shifted the scepter from one hand to the other, trying to cover his disorientation and the well of anger inside him that was still threatening to overflow. Fury was striding toward him and Romanoff, his long coat flapping with the motion.

"Good work, Captain," Fury said, glancing back at Loki's retreating back with a look of satisfaction. "Looks like your reputation as a miracle worker has just been secured."

"We didn't capture him," Steve immediately contradicted.

Fury frowned at him. "Say what?"

"He let us take him."

Fury looked skeptical. "You sure about that, Cap? Three of you against one, and he just _let_ you take him?"

"He had his chances to get away," Steve said flatly. "He's the planning kind, and we better find out what's in his head before he manages to carry it out, whatever it is."

Fury and Romanoff exchanged glances. "I'll take him first," Fury said, "and you after." Romanoff nodded seriously.

"Anything else I need to know?" Fury asked Steve.

"Yes," Steve said, barely holding his anger in check. "Your lack of communication is causing serious problems for me out in the field."

Fury paused, looking genuinely surprised. "Lack of communication? What lack of communication?"

"You didn't tell me Stark was coming. If you had, that would have been the perfect opportunity to explain that I'd be dealing with an egomaniac right in the middle of an already volatile situation."

Fury let out a single bark of laughter. "Oh, he's good," he said to Romanoff, jerking a thumb in Steve's direction.

"Got it in one," she answered with a small smile.

Their amusement infuriated him, and he gripped the scepter in a strangle-hold, feeling a faint buzzing almost like an electrical charge flowing through the handle and into his hand.

"I didn't tell you Stark was coming because I didn't know if he would," Fury explained with a hint of condescension. "I invited him, yes, but Stark's a consultant, not a contractor. He doesn't march to my beat."

"And that's another thing," Steve said tightly. "How am I supposed to operate out in the field when the chain of command hasn't been clearly established?"

Fury gave him a scornful look. "Well, who do you _think_ I wanted to be in charge?"

"Stark _did_ listen to you," Romanoff put in, looking at Steve with a curious expression on her face, part puzzlement, part fascination. "He actually followed your lead. How did you do that, anyway?"

"I didn't do anything," Steve said.

"That's not true," Romanoff said. "I was listening in on the coms. You had everything under control down on the ground." She paused for a moment. "Of course, everything fell apart on the way back. Not sure what happened there."

Steve felt such a wave of shame at his own weakness, and anger that she had noticed it, that he actually had to hold his breath to stop himself from lashing out.

"Well, it's a start," Fury said, clapping a hand on Steve's shoulder, which he instantly shrugged off.

"Don't touch me!" he snapped.

Fury's brow creased as he slowly drew back from Steve, giving him a look that was a little too knowing. "You having an episode, Rogers?"

"If you were worried about _that_," Steve said tightly, "the time to mention it would have been back in New York." He shoved the scepter angrily into Fury's hands and strode off.

Steve hadn't even made it back to the helicarrier's lab before he felt suddenly flat and foolish. He had never popped off like that to a commanding officer. What was he thinking? What was wrong with him?

Whatever it was, he had to keep a lid on it. The last thing he wanted was people focusing on him. It was his job to make sure no one focused on anything but Loki now.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** I've always been sorry that we saw so little of Thor and Steve's first meeting — really, only a few seconds of it before the scene changes. Their personalities seem to mesh well throughout the MCU movies and it was fun to think through the implications of that as I wrote this "extended" scene. __Also: Tony Stark is one heck of a lot of fun to write! __Let me know what you thought._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Steve found Tony Stark standing at the edge of the gaping round hole where the glass cage for the Hulk had been, staring moodily down into the darkened shaft below.

The iris at the bottom had been sealed off again, blocking the wind, but it was hard not to think about what must have happened when Loki had trapped Thor and then dropped him out of the helicarrier. Thor could fly with his hammer, of course, and maybe his weapon was powerful enough to break him out of the cage before he hit the ground, but then again, maybe not. The cage had been built to withstand the Hulk, and they already knew the hammer couldn't break vibranium. What had the cage been built out of? Something just as strong?

Steve knew he was only thinking about Thor to stop himself from thinking about Coulson. At least there was still hope for Thor. But he'd vowed back in Stuttgart not to let a single person die at Loki's hands, and already he'd failed. Phil Coulson was dead. Steve had known him only briefly, but his quiet competence and his consideration toward Steve, even his child-like enthusiasm for all things Captain America, had quickly left an impression.

Steve permitted the familiar emotions of anger, regret and guilt to wash over him: everything he'd felt the day he'd lost Bucky. He knew now that eventually the pain of this failure would dull, although it would never really leave him. It never did. But he could live with that. He'd learned to.

He didn't envy Fury his task of informing Coulson's next of kin.

"Was he married?" Steve asked Stark.

"No," Stark said. He was uncharacteristically quiet, showing no trace of his earlier irreverence. "There was a... cellist, I think."

Stark must have known Coulson better than he did. Steve had never had the chance to learn anything personal about the man. "I'm sorry," he said. "He seemed like a good man."

"He was an idiot," Stark said bluntly.

Steve frowned. "Why? For believing?"

"For taking on Loki alone," Stark said matter-of-factly, backing away from the edge of the shaft. Behind him, a blackened hole gaped in the bulkhead: the evidence left behind by Coulson's last, failed attempt to destroy Loki.

"He was doing his job," Steve pointed out.

"He was out of his league," Stark shot back. "He should have waited. He should have..." He gestured wordlessly, unsure how to finish the sentence. Steve knew all too well where his mind was. How long had he sat in that bombed-out bar in London, trying to work out what he should have done differently to save Bucky?

"Sometimes there isn't a way out, Tony," he said, walking toward him.

"Right," Stark said. "I've heard that before." The sarcasm had popped out again. Steve was starting to realize that it was more than just Stark's style of humor; it was his way of trying to cover up his own pain, pain he clearly hadn't been prepared for. And he wondered: How was it possible Stark had never faced a loss like this before? He had been Iron Man for every bit as long as Steve had been Captain America.

Then he realized: Stark had never been part of a communal fight. His determination to go it alone meant that he didn't know the comforts — or the risks — of having a team behind him.

"Is this the first time you've lost a soldier?" Steve asked.

Stark's eyes flashed with sudden anger. "We are _not_ soldiers!" he said tightly. He was trembling slightly as he said it, his eyes glistening, and Steve realized he had inadvertently struck a nerve. But if Stark didn't think of himself as a soldier, what _did_ he think he was?

Stark took a deep breath, and visibly controlled himself. "I'm not marching to Fury's fife," he said flatly.

"Neither am I," Steve quickly agreed. "He's got the same blood on his hands that Loki does." He decided to turn the conversation toward his own preferred method of dealing with pain: going back to work. "Right now we gotta put that behind us and get this done. Now, Loki needs a power source. If we can put together a list-"

Stark had turned to stare at the bloodstain on the wall. "He made it personal," he said suddenly, interrupting Steve.

"That's not the point," Steve said, determined to move the conversation past their anger so they could settle on a course of action.

"That _is_ the point," Stark insisted. "_That's_ Loki's point. He hit us all right where we live. Why?"

"To tear us apart."

"Yeah, divide and conquer is great, but he knows he has to take us out to win, right?" Stark had suddenly focused up, his dark eyes intense. "_That's_ what he wants. He wants to beat us, he wants to be seen doing it. He wants an audience."

"Right," Steve agreed. "I caught his act in Stuttgart."

"Yeah. That's just previews, this is... this is opening night." Stark paced across the room, deep in concentration. "And Loki, he's a full-tilt diva. He wants flowers, he wants parades, he wants a monument built to the skies with his name plastered..."

He paused, and Steve raised his eyebrows. Boy, did that sound familiar.

Stark said something vulgar and, suddenly furious, strode toward the exit.

"Your tower?" Steve asked, following him with all speed.

Stark had whipped out his cell phone and was already dialing. "Pepper?" he said the moment the call connected. "Where are you? Are you still in D.C.?" There was a short pause. "Tell the pilot to turn the plane around. Yes, you heard me. Right now. Don't go back to New York, whatever you do. Call Happy, have him evacuate the tower. The entire building." He paused. "No time to explain. I have to go kick someone's-"

He swore again before hanging up, and Steve valiantly resisted the urge to rebuke him for using language like that in front of a woman. A few mild hells and damns in the midst of a battle were one thing — he knew for himself the relief it could be to cut loose a little bit when he was in the middle of a situation, and Peggy had never seemed to mind when he and the other Howling Commandos did — but Stark seemed to be fond of far more vulgar phrases that were better left out of mixed company.

Steve knew better than to be a scold, though, so he wisely kept his mouth shut, and then wondered why Stark was giving _him_ a weird look, like Steve was the one who had just said something profane, when he hadn't said anything at all.

"If Loki so much as _scratches_ my new reactor..." Stark fumed to himself, barging into the workshop where his Iron Man armor lay in pieces on a table, still banged-up from his clash with the malfunctioning helicarrier engine.

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record," Steve said, following in hot on his heels, "we need a plan. Whatever we do, the two of us should do it together."

"I'm going straight home," Stark said, grabbing a tool and banging a dent out of the chest plate. "I can get there the quickest." He paused a second, and suddenly admitted: "Look, Rogers, I don't play well with others. Ask anyone. Trust me, it's better this way."

"I can work with that," Steve said calmly. "Then you'll be our scout. All you have to do is keep in touch, let me know what you find out when you get there. I'll follow you in a Quinjet, and that way I'll be right there ready to back you up if you need me."

Stark glanced at him in surprise. "You know how to fly a plane?"

"I know how to crash one."

Stark suddenly laughed, shooting Steve a look that was both surprised and amused.

"I'll get a pilot to take me," Steve clarified, and he already knew who he wanted to ask. He had a pretty good idea Romanoff would be ready to take this leap with him, because it was personal for her, too; she clearly had more than a professional concern for Clint Barton, and she'd be ready to pay Loki back for what he'd done. He hoped she wouldn't have a problem with his decision not to check with Fury before going. The trust was gone; Fury was going to have to earn it back.

"What are we going to do about that scepter?" Steve continued. "If Loki tries to use it on you..."

"Don't worry about that," Stark said, tapping the glowing circle in his chest, making a hollow metallic sound. "I have a tin heart. Hey, you got that reference, right?" He slapped Steve's shoulder lightly with the back of his hand.

"I don't think he needs to touch it to your chest to affect you," Steve said seriously. "Just being in the same room with the thing seems to be enough." He couldn't deny feeling a lingering anger that Loki had managed to trigger another of his traumatic episodes on the way back from Stuttgart, but in a way, it was a relief, too. He would have had everything under control if not for Loki's interference. It meant that he was ready for combat duty after all.

"Yeah, I caught that," Stark said matter-of-factly. "He had us all fighting like a bunch of monkeys in a zoo back in the lab. It's a miracle no one started flinging excrement." He put down the chest plate and picked up the dented helmet. "I don't think that little trick of his is going to work so well now that we're on to it."

Steve hesitated, embarrassed, and admitted, "I'm sorry about all that, Stark. I'm... not exactly in the habit of challenging people to duels."

"Well, it's a good thing, because I would have kicked your-" Stark paused, catching Steve's eye, and then finished lamely, "-your butt." He scrunched up his face at Steve. "Wow, does it really bother you that much? A little swearing?"

"I didn't say it bothered me," Steve said quickly.

"Your face says it all, Rogers." Stark clamped the helmet in a vise and picked up a welding tool. "What are we going to do with Banner when he shows up?"

Steve was momentarily heartened by the sound of "we," but then he frowned. "Banner? Dr. Banner's not coming back."

"Yes he is," Stark said.

"You heard what he said back there," Steve said. "He called us a freak show. He couldn't wait to get away from us. Wherever he is, even if he manages to get control back from 'the other guy,' he's just gonna go on the run again. I can't exactly blame him."

"That was the scepter talking," Stark said positively. "Trust me, he's one pep talk away from joining our little bowling league."

"Okay," Steve said. He didn't think Stark was right, but he accepted the possibility. "Keep an eye out for Thor. If he survived the fall, he'll be there, and we could really use his help."

Stark put on a pair of safety glasses, activated his tool and pressed it against the damaged helmet, shooting out a spray of sparks. For the first time Steve was struck by how much Tony looked like Howard, and he stood stock-still in surprise. Howard was dead and gone, and yet... in a way, he really wasn't.

Maybe more of the old world had been saved that he had originally thought.

"Hey, shouldn't you be suiting up instead of standing around watching me work?" Stark said, glancing up at Steve. "I'm expecting you to back me up, remember?"

Steve smiled slightly. "I'll be there."

He strode out of the workshop and headed off to find Romanoff.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** If there's one thing I regret about "The Avengers," it's that we never really got to see the moment after the big fight in the lab when they all realized Loki was manipulating them, made up with each other and decided to work together as a proper team for the first time. The movie tells us enough that we can extrapolate that it happened, but I wish we could have seen it. Steve/Tony conflict scenes are great, but I feel like seeing more of their working-well-together moments would make their disagreements all the more tragic and powerful. Let me know what you thought of my take in the reviews!_

_Next week: A "missing scene" from Avengers where Bruce Banner and Steve Rogers get to know each other better. _


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

The city felt eerily quiet.

Steve stood on the sidewalk and looked around, taking stock of the situation. The Chitauri threat was gone, the aliens having collapsed lifeless where they stood when the missile Stark had diverted had detonated against their mothership in space. The streets of Manhattan, normally teeming with people going about their businesses, were deserted; the perimeter the police had set up at Steve's request had done its job. Instead, abandoned cars, broken Chitauri chariots and rubble from damaged skyscrapers littered the streets and sidewalks. An acrid smoke drifted on the breeze.

Stark Tower behind him was an island of activity in a sea of silence, now occupied by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who had arrived to escort Loki, the Tesseract and the scepter to secure locations. Thor and Stark had gone with them, while Romanoff and Barton had left to coordinate S.H.I.E.L.D. efforts to secure abandoned Chitauri technology before it fell into the wrong hands.

Steve knew what his next task was. As every soldier quickly learned, battles were only half the battle. The more somber tasks of locating and treating the wounded, of collecting the dead, of clearing roads and re-establishing supply routes, were just as essential to saving lives as defeating the enemy. And thanks to his improved resilience and endurance, he had long ago fallen into the habit of assisting with search and rescue as soon as the fighting was finished.

Sirens could be heard far in the distance, but there were no emergency vehicles in sight. There was no way for them to get here, where the fighting had been concentrated, thanks to all the rubble littering the streets. And while there were no people in sight, Steve knew the police had faithfully followed his order to get everyone indoors. There could be, and probably were, hundreds of injured people nearby, and no easy way to get them to the hospital four city blocks northeast of here.

A shout nearby suddenly drew his attention. A woman, calling for help. Without hesitation, Steve broke into a run, following the sound. He came around a corner and found a woman dressed in medical scrubs standing in front of a bodega with a truck smashed through the front. She was peering through a small gap between the broken wall and the truck, shouting something through it.

"Problem?" Steve asked as he drew up beside her.

"There's a guy trapped inside," she said breathlessly, glancing briefly at Steve. "There isn't enough room here for me to get in to him, but-" She looked at Steve again, properly this time, and suddenly stopped talking, giving him a slow up-and-down as a confused expression crossed her face.

"Is there another entrance?" he asked her urgently.

"Yes," she answered, still looking at him oddly, "around the back, but it's locked."

"Can he get to it?"

"He can't move. Says he's pinned under something."

"Show me."

She didn't question him, although she looked like she wanted to. Quickly she led him around the corner to a door marked "employees only" that was, in fact, securely locked.

"Stand back," he told the woman, and then with three quick chops with the shield's edge, he severed all three hinges from the door. After that, it was easy to lift the thick metal door out of the frame and toss it to the side. Ignoring the incredulous look the woman was giving him, Steve entered the building and called out.

"In here!" a man shouted back weakly.

The inside of the bodega was a mess. Collapsed shelving and spilled food items covered every inch of the floor. It took Steve a moment to see the man, lying on his back, pinned underneath a tall stack of shelves. He turned to look at Steve, his face dusty and bloodied.

"Please," he said hoarsely. "Don't leave me here! Don't leave-!" His eyes were wild.

He must have been trapped there, alone, for hours. More than enough time to get worked into a panic.

"We're not going anywhere," Steve said calmly. "We're going to get you out. What's your name?"

The man took in a ragged breath. "Charles."

"Just sit tight, Charles. We'll have you out in no time."

He glanced at the woman in scrubs, who had followed him in. "Are you really a nurse?" he asked her.

She looked at him levelly. "Are you really Captain America?"

"Well... I played him in the movies."

He picked his way over the rubble and carefully lifted the shelving off the man. The woman didn't wait for instructions, but silently grabbed the man's arms and pulled him out into a clearer space. Steve lowered the shelves back down to the floor and came around to evaluate the man. The woman was already leaning over him, checking his vitals.

"Charles? My name is Cami," she said calmly and clearly. "I'm going to take care of you, okay? Just lay still and try to relax. I'm going to tie up your leg, okay? Nice and tight. We'll get the bleeding stopped and then we'll work on getting you out of here." She was already pulling a dog leash off one of the sale displays nearby and sliding it under his leg just above the gash. The man groaned but obediently laid as still as he could.

Seeing that she had everything under control, Steve picked his way through the rubble to the driver's side of the truck that had crashed through the front of the bodega, and looked in. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel with a bad head injury. Steve worked his arm through the shattered window and checked his pulse. Nothing. He was already cold and stiff. Nothing they could do for him.

He went back over to Cami, who had her patient stabilized now. "Can you carry him?" she asked, looking up at Steve.

"Yes. But I'm not sure where to carry him to."

"There's a triage center set up inside the office building across the way," she said, glancing out the window. "They sent some of us out to look for survivors."

Steve carefully picked up the man and followed Cami across the street and into the office building's spacious lobby, where row upon row of injured people were laid out on the floor, and a handful of medical personnel — mostly in civilian clothing — were bustling around, doing their best to treat everyone, although this was clearly a makeshift operation. There were far more patients than doctors, and not much medical equipment that he could see.

With Cami's help, Steve found a place to lay down Charles beside the other wounded people. Before he could straighten up, the man grabbed onto his arm.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely. "Thank you. I didn't think I was gonna get out." His face was pale under its layer of dust. "Thank you."

Steve patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Okay. You're gonna be fine now." He glanced over at Cami, who was already pulling rolls of bandages out of a box. "Who's in charge here?"

Her hands full, she nodded her head across the lobby. "Dr. Trenton. Over there, in the red shirt."

Steve walked over purposefully. Dr. Trenton was digging through a box, shaking his head.

"Still no disinfectant," he said grimly to someone else standing by. "There _has_ to be more supplies somewhere around here." He glanced at Steve, and then did a double-take upon seeing his uniform.

"What's the plan for getting these people to a hospital?" Steve asked, making his voice as authoritative as possible. He didn't have the patience for explanations right now.

Dr. Trenton studied him for a moment, and thankfully seemed to decide it wasn't worth asking. "The plan is a lousy one," he said bluntly. "The National Guard said they were going to locate equipment for clearing the road — bulldozers or a crane or something — but they said it could take hours."

"Maybe I can-" Steve started, but just then they heard a woman's piercing scream. Both he and Dr. Trenton whirled, and a woman came bursting through the doors into the lobby with a terrified look on her face, just as a deep voice outside boomed so loudly that the windows shook:

"So many STAIRS!"

Seconds later, the Hulk came stomping down the street, swiping irritably at a mailbox on the sidewalk and sending a snowstorm of envelopes fluttering through the air.

"Stupid stairs!" he boomed, and he turned and fixed a fierce glare through the windows, where all the medical personnel and not a few of the patients were looking out at him fearfully.

Hulk took one step toward the windows, growling, and several people screamed. A few patients attempted to scramble to their feet, preparing to run. Acting quickly, Steve darted out the doors and caught the Hulk's attention.

"Hey! Hulk!"

Hulk took one look at Steve, and paused for a moment.

"Calm down," Steve said sternly. "There are injured people here."

"_Cap_ calm down!" Hulk snapped. "Hulk hate the stairs!"

"There aren't any stairs here," Steve shot back, mystified. What was he going on about?

The Hulk growled angrily and kicked a fire hydrant. Instantly a fountain of water gushed straight up into the air. Steve sighed. Apparently asking the Hulk to calm down was like asking water not to be wet. Well, maybe he could at least direct the Hulk's rage in more productive ways.

"Fine. You want to smash? Smash that!" he said, pointing at a broken-down car parked in the middle of the road. Willingly, Hulk swatted it casually with the back of his hand, and the car skittered across the road and came to a noisy stop against the building. And just like that, part of the road leading to the hospital was clear. Hulk grunted with grim satisfaction.

"And that!" Steve said, pointing to a food truck that was blocking two lanes.

While Hulk was smashing the food truck into oblivion, Steve grabbed the bumper of a taxi cab and put his shoulder into it, churning his legs until he had the car pushed to the curb.

It didn't take long for the Hulk to catch on. Working together, they made their way down the street, pushing vehicles and tossing rubble aside as fast as they could. Finally, Steve put his hands on his hips and looked down the street, satisfied to see that most of the obstructions had now been cleared away.

"Good smash!" he said approvingly, turning to look at the Hulk… who had just raised his clenched fist over a shiny blue convertible parked at the curb that had miraculously escaped harm during the battle.

"No! Not that one!" Steve shouted in alarm.

Hulk dropped his fist, and the convertible exploded into a million bits of twisted metal and shattered glass. The Hulk gave a satisfied grunt.

"Hey! Hulk!" Steve shouted, pointing his finger sternly and injecting all the authority he could into his voice. "_Stop smashing!_"

Hulk growled and waved a meaty hand dismissively in Steve's direction before turning back toward the convertible, raising his fist to smash it a second time.

"Wait!" Steve shouted, getting an idea. "I have something bigger!"

The Hulk paused, fist hovering over the convertible, and peered at Steve curiously. "Big smash?"

"Yes!" Steve said eagerly. "Big smash! Down there!" He pointed down the street to the foot of Stark Tower, where the crumpled letters R and K lay strewn across the street, the last obstruction remaining between the triage center and the hospital. The S and the T had landed on the rooftop of a nearby building, but the A, oddly enough, was still neatly affixed to the top of Stark Tower. "This way!"

Steve took off at a sprint toward the roadblock, and to his relief Hulk forgot about smashing cars and followed him in great leaping bounds that shook the ground. Hulk was slow to build up momentum, but after a block or so he started to gain on Steve, coming up behind in a sprint now swift and — to be honest — terrifying.

"Too slow!" Hulk boomed as he pulled even, and without warning Steve felt a huge hand close roughly around him, and suddenly his legs were pedaling uselessly in midair as the Hulk snatched him up.

This was no glorious flight through the air, pulled by the power of a magical hammer and held in the safe and secure grip of Thor. No, this time Steve was flopping around like a rag doll as Hulk swung his arms back and forth, legs churning powerfully, heading straight for the roadblock.

"Put me down!" Steve gasped, but he could barely squeeze out the words thanks to Hulk's iron grip around his middle. Hulk's only response was to launch himself high into the air, and then it was as if everything was moving in slow motion, the two of them rising up at an almost leisurely rate — Steve had time to catch sight of several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents looking at them through the sixth-floor window of Stark Tower, mouths agape — before they reached the peak of the arc and then descended, gaining speed rapidly until the Hulk came down with all the grace of a 10-ton megabomb.

Steve felt the jarring impact in every bone of his body as bits of the letters R and K exploded in every direction. The Hulk roared in satisfaction and began stomping gleefully on the mangled remnants, rattling Steve until he felt like his teeth were coming loose from his skull.

"Let go!" Steve insisted, beating his fists uselessly against Hulk's hand, and to his surprise Hulk actually obeyed and dropped him casually onto the ground, where he crumpled into an ungraceful heap amid the wreckage. Steve staggered to his feet, nearly tripping over a fallen streetlamp, and then straightened up, shaking broken glass out of his hair and trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

The Hulk roared with laughter. "Cap smash!" he boomed, giving Steve a not-so-gentle shove toward the pile of rubble.

Steve had no intention of smashing anything, but now that the letters had been broken down into smaller pieces, he had no trouble grabbing a steel beam and dragging it to the curb. After a few minutes of him moving rubble off the street, the Hulk caught on and left off stomping in favor of kicking things to the side. It wasn't long until they finally had the street completely clear.

Steve could see a handful of people emerging cautiously from the triage center, surveying the scene. Steve caught the eye of Dr. Trenton and gestured silently for them to go back inside. He didn't want them bringing out the injured until the Hulk was well out of the way. He wasn't quite as wild as Steve had been led to believe when he'd watched the footage Coulson had shown him — Hulk did seem to understand well enough who was friend and who was foe, at least — but he was also just as capable of hurting someone by accident as on purpose.

"More smash!" Hulk demanded, looking around expectantly in search of a new target.

"No more smash," Steve replied, and he acknowledged a weariness deep down in his bones. He was capable of fighting for days at a time without sleep, but even he had his limits, and he sensed he was close to reaching them. "No more fight."

The Hulk growled briefly, looking irritated… but not angry. Come to think of it, he had seemed more playful than angry the whole time they'd been cleaning up this mess. Was it possible the Hulk was running out of steam, too? He didn't seem _physically_ tired, but maybe he was calming down a little. After all, even the angriest man couldn't stay angry forever.

"Yes," Steve said firmly. "Time to go home."

"No home!" Hulk waved a massive hand dismissively.

Steve paused. Did he mean he didn't want to go home? Or that he didn't have a home to go to? He realized he had no idea where Banner was originally from. He had apparently been on the run for more than a year, an outcast, feared and hated. Maybe all doors were shut to him now.

"I know," Steve said gently. "I can't go home either. But I have a place." He gestured in the direction of his apartment. "You can come. We could..." He cast his mind about, trying to think of what would be an enticement to a beast with the temperament of a child. "...play Galaga?"

Hulk creased his brow and grunted in confusion.

"Yeah, I don't know what it is either," Steve admitted.

"Hulk _fight_," Hulk said, thumping his chest proudly with both fists. "_Banner_ play." He wandered away, but after only three steps he suddenly went down on one knee, cracking the sidewalk with his weight, and slowly sank down onto his hands and knees, groaning. Concerned, Steve hurried over to him, but drew back in surprise when he realized Hulk was shrinking.

It took only seconds, and suddenly Bruce Banner was the one on his hands and knees, shirtless and dusty, the green tinge fading from his skin as he moaned softly, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Dr. Banner," Steve said in relief, coming down to crouch beside him. "You okay?"

Banner gave him a bewildered look and then slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, gathering in the too-loose waistband of his pants with one hand. Looking small and pale, he leaned back against an overturned dumpster, tipping his head back in exhaustion, gray-dusted curls damp and sticking to the sides of his face. Steve waited, giving him a chance to catch his breath. Finally, Banner licked his dry lips, flopped his head to one side, and looked at Steve with naked dread in his eyes.

"Did I kill anyone?" he asked hoarsely.

"Chitauri," Steve said promptly, and Banner closed his eyes momentarily, looking intensely relieved.

"Don't you remember?" Steve asked curiously.

"I never remember much," Banner said wearily. "Just... flashes. Images, all jumbled up." He scrubbed tiredly at his face and then looked around at the piles of rubble lining both sides of the street.

"Oh, man," he muttered. "Did I break all that?"

"Actually, you helped me clean it up," Steve reassured him, and quickly explained everything that had happened since Banner had transformed into the Hulk.

"Are you telling me..." Banner squinted one eye a little, looking skeptically at Steve. "...that the other guy actually _listened_ to you? Did what you told him?"

"Yeah. Mostly."

Banner let out a slow breath, looking quietly amazed. "Maybe it's better when I _choose_ to do it," he said softly, almost to himself. "Maybe then he's not so crazy..."

He shifted position, using both hands to push himself upright from his slump against the dumpster. He got himself sitting up straight, but he nearly lost his grip on the stretched-out waistband of his pants as he did so. Fortunately, he managed to yank up his pants and maintain his dignity just in the nick of time.

"_Every_ time," Banner muttered, gathering the material around his waist and holding it tightly with both hands, looking embarrassed.

"Too loose is better than too tight," Steve said dryly.

Banner gave him a curious look. "You say that like a man who knows what he's talking about."

"Right after my transformation," Steve explained, "I had to chase a Hydra agent through the streets of Brooklyn, barefoot and in pants that were-" He paused. "I don't even want to tell you how many sizes too small they were. I used to be a little guy. Those pants were cutting into all the wrong places." He shuddered, remembering.

Banner laughed, forgetting his embarrassment, as Steve had hoped he would. Just then, they heard the sound of engines, and looked over to see that vehicles were emerging from a parking garage and pulling up in front of the triage center, where medical personnel already waited with patients to be loaded in them. Within minutes, they would undoubtedly be driving past Steve and Bruce en route to the hospital.

Steve glanced at the shops behind them. "There's a clothing shop," he said, nodding toward it. "Want me to try to find something for you?"

"Yeah," Banner said, looking down self-consciously. "I better get dressed before I _really_ start scaring people."

"Okay. Don't move, I'll be right back."

There was no one in the shop — the owners had no doubt fled hours ago when the battle started — but Steve easily entered through a shattered window and found some clothing that looked like it would fit Banner. He pulled off the price tags and left them on the counter with a hastily jotted note explaining the situation, promising that he would come back later to pay. He'd left his wallet with his civilian clothing back on the helicarrier, and somehow he doubted Banner still had his.

"So where is everyone?" Banner asked after Steve had handed him the clothing and he'd stepped behind the dumpster to dress in privacy.

Steve told him, adding: "We're all supposed to meet up again later for lunch... or dinner?" He realized he had no idea what time it was, or even what day it was. Between the chaos of the battle and all the time zones he'd traveled through on this mission, he'd lost track of how long he had been awake now. It felt like a long, long time. "At the Shawarma Palace. Tony insisted. Don't ask me what shawarma is."

"Oh, they had it in India," Banner said easily. "It's good." He emerged from behind the dumpster, now fully dressed, and then gingerly lowered himself back down to sit on the curb, still looking a little shaky.

"Sorry, it just takes me a while to come back down from this," Banner said apologetically. "If you have somewhere to be, you can go. I'm good."

But Steve didn't quite believe him. Banner obviously found the transformation process traumatic, both physically and emotionally, and it didn't seem right to leave him alone now.

"We got the path cleared for the ambulances," Steve said, sitting on the curb next to him and trying not to wince; the Chitauri energy blast he'd taken to the torso still stung, although he'd refused to let it slow him down. "I think we've earned a break."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the emergency vehicles drive past on their way to the hospital.

"Steve, can I ask you a question?" Banner asked after a while.

"Yeah."

Banner hesitated for a moment. "This is probably a long shot, but I don't suppose Dr. Erskine ever told you anything about his formula that he didn't put in his notes?"

"Nothing technical," Steve said, sorry that he couldn't give Banner better news. "I probably wouldn't have understood it if he had. He did tell me that the serum amplified whatever was already inside a man."

"I'm familiar with the personality-amplifying effects," Banner said. He laughed humorlessly. "Believe me, I'm familiar. It's the physical transformation I'm interested in. If I could understand what went right with you, then maybe I could understand what went wrong with me, and then maybe I could fix it." He sighed wearily. "I would really like to not do this anymore."

"I thought the gamma radiation was where it went wrong," Steve said, although he suddenly wondered: what was it that Bruce Banner had been so angry about _before_ his experiment, that it had been amplified to such an extreme degree?

Banner shook his head. "The gamma radiation is responsible for the instability of the transformation. It's why I transform, and then untransform, and then retransform, and why I can't always control it. But it isn't what made me look like a... a... a monster. I mean, look at Johann Schmidt. He didn't use gamma radiation or Vita-Rays or any kind of radiation at all, only the serum, and look what he turned into."

"He had an imperfect variant-" Steve started.

"Did he?" Banner asked. "I mean, it worked, didn't it? Wasn't he just as strong as you?"

"Yeah," Steve agreed reluctantly. He'd had Schmidt on the ropes for most of their fight, but he knew it wasn't from a mismatch of power. It was just that Schmidt hadn't fought on the front lines alongside his men. He had never developed his fighting skills. He'd wasted his gift.

"The serum worked for all four of us," Banner continued. "Made us just as strong and fast and tough as it was supposed to. But you were the only one who didn't turn into something inhuman. Why?"

"_Four_ of us?" Steve repeated, startled.

Banner squinted at him a little. "Didn't S.H.I.E.L.D. tell you about Emil Blonsky?"

"No one ever tells me anything," Steve said, feeling a surge of irritation. Maybe he wouldn't be so flat-footed all the time if Fury would just share basic information with him.

"Blonsky's an interesting case," Banner said, his eyes going distant. "He was an Army man, like you. They gave him a dose of the same serum they gave me, one that had been derived from a sample of your blood. No radiation, just the injection. And it worked really well... at least at first. He didn't have any kind of visible transformation, but he became very strong. Probably on par with you. And then they sent him to try to capture me... and he couldn't do it. He couldn't beat the Hulk. So Blonsky decided that what he got wasn't good enough, and he bullied General Ross into giving him a second dose of the serum."

"It was too much?"

Banner waggled his head noncommittally. "It did make him even stronger. He had an incredible healing factor. There were some... mutations, though. Nothing dramatic — he still looked mostly human. But I think it was then that Blonsky started to go a little crazy. Like you said, the serum amplifies what's already inside, and he was driven by ambition. He was obsessed with it. He tried to fight the Hulk again, and he got thrashed. He knew it still wasn't enough, so he did something-" Banner exhaled sharply, a look of disbelief crossing his face. "-something incredibly stupid. He managed to get his hands on a sample of my blood — my gamma-irradiated blood — and he took a transfusion of it."

Steve was horrified. "He turned himself into another Hulk?"

"Worse," Banner said grimly. "He turned into something bigger, uglier, and meaner. An abomination. He got drunk on power and went on a rampage through Harlem, breaking everything in sight just to prove that he could."

"Is he still out there somewhere?" Steve asked, feeling a surge of alarm.

Banner shook his head. "Ross did the same thing to Blonsky that he wanted to do to me," he said quietly. "The same thing fate did to _you_. He put him in cryogenic freeze."

Steve felt an instinctive stirring of sympathy, even though he believed Banner that Blonsky was too dangerous to run loose. What would happen if or when they ever thawed him out? Time could steal things from a man that he could never get back.

"Anyway," Banner said, "it makes it pretty clear that the nature of the physical transformation isn't connected solely to the composition of the serum. If it was, Blonsky and I would have turned into the same thing; we got the exact same variant, and it was even catalyzed by the same type of radiation. There must have been some other factor in Erskine's original formula that we haven't identified yet. Some secret he never wrote down. I just haven't been able to isolate it." His frustration was plain.

"It can't have been easy, trying to research all that while you were on the run," Steve said.

"Not exactly," Banner admitted. "Tony invited me to come use the lab equipment in his tower, but..." He shook his head. "What's to stop the Army from coming after me again?" He glanced around the deserted streets. "I should probably disappear again right now, while I still can." He sounded reluctant, though.

Steve thought for a moment. "The Hulk just saved a lot of people, and he was seen doing it. Maybe people will think of you differently now."

"Not Ross," Banner said positively. "He thinks of me as a weapon, not a human being. He'll never let me be. You were smart to go to S.H.I.E.L.D. instead of back to the Army. If I were you, I'd stay a million miles away from that man. He doesn't give two figs for people as people. They're just tools to be used... or discarded. If you ever became a thorn in his side, he'd put you on ice, too."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," Steve said, and then asked curiously, "Bruce, don't you have anyone who can support you while you work through this? Any family?"

"There's no one in my family I'm interested in keeping in contact with, let's just put it that way." There was an edge to Banner's voice that warned Steve not to pursue that line of questioning any further, and out of respect for Banner he immediately dropped it.

"What about you?" Banner asked after a few moments. "Did you have any family that got, you know, left behind? Back in your time?"

"No," Steve said softly. "Just friends."

Banner mulled that over for a moment. "Well, I'm not in the habit of sounding like a Pollyanna," he said mildly, "but it _is_ possible to make new friends." He gave a tentative smile to Steve, who immediately understood it for the offer that it was. He smiled back and nodded, accepting it.

"And if you don't mind me giving advice... you should accept Stark's offer," Steve said. "He would protect you." He met Banner's eyes firmly. "And so would I."

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** I knew when I set out to write this story that I wanted Steve to have a good one-on-one bonding moment with each of the Avengers. When it came time to write the Bruce-Steve scene, I did my usual research into their interactions in the movies to get something to work with and discovered... there are almost **no** Bruce-Steve one-on-one moments in the MCU movies! There is their first meeting on the helicarrier, which is nice but brief, and there's the scene in Age of Ultron when Steve gives his "blessing" for Bruce to pursue Nat, and... that's pretty much it! I think there was a bit of a missed opportunity there. I know they had lots of Bruce-Tony moments because they have the great "science-bro" angle, but Steve and Bruce have the "super-soldier bro" angle as well as more similar personalities._

_Also, if you're interesting in learning more about how and why the super-soldier serum works the way it does, may I suggest you give my story "The Third Life of Steve Rogers" a try?_

_Let me know what you thought of this chapter, and leave a review!_


	20. Chapter 20

_**Author's note:**_ _Thanks to Nerdzrule, Nzie, LoverGurrl411 and Guests for leaving reviews! I appreciate the feedback!_

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Steve slumped at the table, eyes half shut, as he slowly chewed on his shawarma — which, it turned out, was roasted chicken stuffed inside pita bread with some kind of sauce. It wasn't half-bad, although he was so tired and hungry at this point that he probably would have eaten anything that was handed to him. He shifted his weight slightly, and his boots scraped the broken glass under their table.

No one else even looked up at the sound. They were as exhausted as he was. Tony Stark was uncharacteristically silent, looking out the window with total disinterest as the crews outside labored to clean up the rubble. Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton were staring at each other — or no, staring just past each other, with glazed expressions on their faces. Barton had one foot propped up on Romanoff's chair, but she didn't even seem to care. Bruce Banner was giving his full concentration to eating his fries two at a time, while Thor was devouring his shawarma in gigantic bites like it was the last food on Earth.

It felt so much like one of the Howling Commandos' post-blitz bar crawls that Steve almost had to pinch himself to remind himself that it wasn't. They'd been fighting aliens, not Nazis, and they were the Avengers, not the Allies.

The Avengers.

Everyone had started off on the wrong foot with each other. Wounded egos, misunderstandings, petty squabbling. Steve was ashamed to think of the part he had played in it. He understood now that Loki's scepter had been affecting their minds, but it hadn't really created their conflicts, only enhanced them. He wished... he wished they all could have seen him as he really was. Not this broken version of Steve Rogers, who still questioned whether there was a place in this world for someone like him. A man out of time.

And then he wondered why he cared what they thought of him. Would he even see any of them again? Nick Fury obviously intended that. But Stark didn't seem to be fully on board with it. Thor had stated in no uncertain terms that he was leaving for Asgard, with Loki and the Tesseract. They had already arranged to regroup in Central Park later that day to see him off. Steve would be glad to see the Tesseract go, but he wished Thor could stay. It was the first time he had ever fought side-by-side with someone more powerful than himself, and it had been a comfort he didn't know he wanted. As for Banner, there was something about his brilliant mind and self-effacing personality that was vaguely reminiscent of Dr. Erskine. He found himself wanting to know more.

He wanted something. For the first time since waking up from the ice, he truly _wanted_ something.

He wanted to be an Avenger.

"Is the Asgardian blood on your mother's side, or your father's?" Thor said.

His voice, deep and booming (_could_ Thor speak quietly?), jerked them all from their full-bellied somnolence, and the five of them lifted their heads and looked at him questioningly. For some reason, Thor was looking at Steve expectantly.

"What?" Steve said blankly, praying he hadn't missed something important in his exhausted state.

"Which side of your family claims the Asgardian bloodline?" Thor said.

A frown wandered across Steve's face. "I'm not Asgardian." All the other Avengers looked equally mystified by this turn in the conversation.

"Then why do you wear our symbols?" Thor demanded. Foolishly, Steve looked down at the star on his chest.

"Not that," Thor clarified. "_That_." He pointed at Steve's shield, resting against the wall. "Your Viking shield. And your helmet, with the wings on the side." He gestured meaningfully. "The winged helm is the symbol of the Asgardian royal family. I have one, of course, although I only use it for ceremonies. It's forbidden for commoners to wear it."

"Punishable by _death_?" Stark said, suddenly perking up. He turned back to where the restaurant owners were sweeping up broken glass and waved to get their attention. "Hey, can we get an axe, please?" he called. "One large axe to go, Table 4. We'll do it outside, I promise."

"There were half-breeds among the Vikings," Thor said matter-of-factly. "The bloodlines are diluted now, but it must have bred true in you."

"My ancestors were Irish," Steve said.

Thor belched quietly into his fist. "Vikings raided Ireland."

"Hey, Thor, I don't know how things are done on Asgard," Barton said lazily, "but here on planet Earth it's considered an insult to question someone's parentage."

"I meant no disrespect," Thor said, having the decency to look contrite.

"I wasn't offended," Steve said. Actually, it had sounded more like a compliment. "But I'm just plain human. If you had seen me how I used to be, you would believe it." He'd had no idea his winged helm had anything to do with the Norse. He had always assumed his USO costume's designer had intended to evoke images of Hermes, the Greek god of athleticism. He was just grateful they hadn't put wings on his shoes, too.

"I watched you take hits no mortal could survive," Thor said.

"He's an experiment," Stark cut in, gesturing at Steve. "Enhanced. My father helped create him."

"Midgard is experimenting with magic?" Thor asked, sounding surprised.

"Not magic, Fabio," Stark said. "_Science_. As in, he's a lab rat."

"Science, magic... they are one and the same," Thor said. "How do you think my people became so strong, all those eons ago?"

Banner stared at Thor, fries paused halfway to his mouth. "You mean... Your people _experimented-?_"

"And no magic — or science — can turn a rat into a warrior," continued Thor loudly, talking over Banner. "There must be materials there to work with." He scrutinized Steve for a moment, and then his face broke out into a wide, toothy grin. "You have heart, Rogers. We'll stay the execution for now. You can keep your winged helm. I give you my permission."

"That's real sweet, Thor," Romanoff said.

Thor grinned wider. "Thank you."

Just then a large black van pulled up to the curb outside, and Maria Hill stepped out of the driver's side door and stood in the shattered doorway. Her eyes swept over the six of them slumped around the table, and a smile touched her lips.

"Look what the cat dragged in," she said.

"Ha, ha, ha," Barton said dully.

"This is your ride, S.H.I.E.L.D. people," Hill said, hooking a thumb toward the van. "Fury wants you at Headquarters for a full debriefing... and for showers," she added, wrinkling her nose as she looked from Barton to Romanoff to Steve. "You guys are filthy."

Slowly, painfully, the three of them got up from the table to gather up their gear. When Steve bent down to pick up his shield, his knuckles accidentally brushed against the side of Thor's hammer. He was startled when a blue glow glimmered across the hammer, and for one brief moment, Steve thought he saw some kind of symbol appear on the surface of the metal: three interlocking loops, glowing with a life of their own. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

_Magic_, he thought. Or was it science?

"Hey, Cap," Stark said as they were shuffling out the door. Barton and Romanoff kept going, but Steve turned back to look at him. Stark was leaning back in his chair, regarding him with a tilted head and an inscrutable expression. "See you around, old man."

Steve suppressed his instinctive annoyance and, for the first time, stopped to wonder if maybe Stark's cruel comments weren't meant to be cruel. Was this actually how he normally interacted with everyone, not just Steve? After all, Stark had been teasing Banner and poking him — actually _poking_ him — since the first moment they met, too. He'd even dared to make a joke about Fury's missing eye. Was Stark aiming to get a rise out of people with all that snark, as Steve had first assumed, or was he just trying to connect with them in his own unfathomable way? He decided to test it out.

"I'm 27," Steve said coolly. "If _I'm_ an old man, what does that make you?" He quirked an eyebrow at Stark, looking pointedly at the strands of gray in his hair.

Banner snorted into his drink. Thor took another enormous bite of shawarma, looking on with interest. Steve waited, a little uncertain, half-expecting Stark to explode with a fresh round of name-calling.

"Hey," Stark said, suddenly standing up and pushing his chair back, scraping it through the broken glass. He came around the table toward Steve, wincing a little as he favored his right knee. "Ouch. Hey, I just got this brilliant idea. I'm gonna commission a new comic book. I think I'll call it 'Iron Man and His Avengers.'" He put one arm around Steve and spread his other arm out in a sweeping gesture, envisioning the title. "I'll have them draw you in as my sidekick, 'Stevie the Boy Wonder.' You can be dressed up like a Boy Scout. What do you think?"

"Maybe I can be smashing an alien in the face with my shield, while you take down the mothership single-handedly," Steve said seriously.

Stark's eyes lit up. "Oh, _now_ he'll play," he said in a tone of approval, turning to exchange a glance at Banner, who smiled broadly. He turned back to Steve. "Good _golly_, Mr. Rogers, I was starting to think you didn't know how to take a joke." He thumped Steve's shoulder, and then backed up and clasped his hands together in a business-like way. "Okay, great meeting. Let's do this again sometime. I'll have my people call your people. Bye-bye now." He plunked himself down in his chair again and picked up the remnants of his shawarma in what was obviously a dismissal. Banner shot Steve an amused look, and then wadded up his napkin and threw it at Stark's head as Steve left.

When he got outside, Barton and Romanoff were already sitting on the bench along one side of the back of the van. Steve sat down on the bench opposite them and Hill slammed the door shut, hopped into the driver's seat and started the engine.

As soon as the van went into motion, Romanoff swung her feet to the side, putting them up on the seat and turning her back to Barton. Without the slightest trace of inhibition, she leaned back against his side, letting her head tip back onto his shoulder, and closed her eyes. She wriggled around a bit, getting more comfortable, and then her face slowly smoothed as her body relaxed, looking for all the world like she would be asleep against Barton within minutes.

Barton glanced at Romanoff impassively, and then carefully, so as not to disturb her, pulled a knife out of the sheath at his belt and started casually picking gravel out of the soles of one of his boots.

Embarrassed, Steve tried not to stare at them, but since they were sitting right across from him it was hard not to. He tried looking out the windows, but they were tinted, and everything outside was a depressing, ruined mess anyway. What was going on between those two? Were they a couple? They must be. They looked so comfortable with each other. And Romanoff had been so single-minded about getting Barton back from Loki's thrall. There was obviously a history there.

It took forever to get back to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Manhattan facility. Hill was forced to take a few detours to avoid rubble still blocking the roads. Growing more and more uncomfortable with the situation, Steve decided he might as well close his eyes, too, not least of all to avoid having to look at Barton and Romanoff. He turned to the side like Romanoff, putting his back against the wall of the van and his feet up on the seat. Immediately, he regretted it. His suit was so form-fitting, and the _chafing_... Suppressing a groan, he quickly put his feet down and sat up straight again. Barton gave him a strange look.

Steve sighed, letting his shoulders sag. If they wanted him to be Captain America again, this was not going to fly. It just wasn't.

"Hey, Barton," he said, keeping his voice low so he wouldn't disturb Romanoff.

"Yeah?" Barton glanced up from wiping the dust off the blade onto his pants.

"Is your suit comfortable?"

If Barton was surprised by the question, he didn't show it. "Yeah," he said. "Fits like a glove. Moves every way I do." His eyes swept up and down Steve's uniform. "Looking for a change?"

"I miss my old suit," he said, unable to keep the defeat out of his voice. "I guess it got given away to a museum. This one isn't as comfortable, and besides, it's just a little..." His voice trailed off.

"Ludicrously tight and bright?" Barton supplied, a broad grin spreading across his face.

Steve looked down at his boots, but couldn't stop a smile from creeping across his face. Why did Barton's words feel like good-natured ribbing, when Stark's digs about "spangles" had stung? He had felt inclined to like Barton from the moment he'd met him properly for the first time. Why? Was it because Barton, like Bucky, was a more-than-capable sniper with an appealingly laid-back attitude? His regret over Bucky mingled with his newfound appreciation for Barton, and the two emotions made a strange concoction deep down inside. Not entirely unpleasant, either.

"You took the words out of my mouth," Steve admitted.

"Well, why didn't you just get a copy of the old one made?" Barton said reasonably.

"I didn't get any say," Steve said. "Coulson brought me this."

"Coulson?" Barton said. "Oh." His smile faded, and they were both quiet for a moment, remembering.

"Did you ever go into his office?" Barton asked finally. Steve shook his head. "He had framed comic books all over the walls," Barton continued. "You look like you stepped right off the pages of one. Probably fulfilled a life-long ambition of his, you putting that on for him." He tucked his knife back into its sheath. "But if you go into Fabrication at Headquarters, they can make you a uniform however you want. I can show you where it is sometime."

"Thanks," Steve said gratefully.

"Get one with darker colors," Romanoff murmured without opening her eyes, surprising them both; they thought she was already asleep. "That one's no good for stealth missions."

"Am I going to get stealth missions?" Steve asked. He was starting to notice that Romanoff was considerably more in the loop than he was.

"You'll go wherever Fury sends you," she said matter-of-factly.

Would he? Steve was still not very happy with the revelation that Fury had gone along with the Council's plan to use the Tesseract to build weapons... and the very existence of that shadowy Council didn't fill him with confidence, either. They hadn't exactly shown the best judgement in deciding to send a nuclear missile to Manhattan. Did he really want to continue to work for these people?

Almost as if she read his mind, Romanoff opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him, red curls spilling down Barton's shoulder. "Fury's not so bad," she said. "Sure, he's a paranoid SOB, but his heart's in the right place. And he knows how to tell the Council where to stick it." She paused for a moment. "He really needs someone like you, Rogers, and I'm not talking about your muscles. S.H.I.E.L.D. needs you. You can pull us back from the ledge when we take things too far. Sometimes we do that."

There was an unexpected pain behind her eyes as she said that. As if she knew more than she wanted to about taking things too far. Not for the first time, Steve wondered what her story was. How had she ended up at S.H.I.E.L.D. after working for the KGB? And why did Fury trust her? As a spy, Romanoff was good at manipulation. Almost too good. But even though he knew there was a good chance Romanoff was under instruction from Fury to keep him loyal to the organization, Steve couldn't help but be swayed by her words. Maybe he could make a difference in S.H.I.E.L.D. Colonel Phillips had been a tough nut to crack, too — Fury reminded him of Phillips in more ways than one — but Steve had been able to talk him down from some of his excesses, back in the day. Maybe he could do that here, too.

Maybe the more relevant question was, was he ready for more missions? He'd thought, with all his experience in war and all the advantages that came along with the serum, that he could handle anything. But then he'd fought aliens. He'd fought a god. And for the first time since his experiment, he had felt absurdly in over his head. There was so much he still didn't know about this new world he'd woken up in.

"The way you two fight," he said suddenly. "Your fighting style. What do you call that? I've never seen anything like it."

"Mixed martial arts," Barton said. "Basically you pick and choose from all the disciplines, whatever suits the terrain or situation best. Jiu-jitsu, taekwondo, muay thai, krav maga. Anything and everything."

Reluctantly, Steve admitted: "I didn't understand half of what you just said." He was so tired of the strange looks people gave him when he didn't understand things that seemed so simple or obvious to them. And Stark had openly mocked him for it. But he had no idea how he could be expected to do any better than he was. How would _they_ feel if they were suddenly dropped into the year 2080 with no warning whatsoever?

But Barton didn't give him a strange look at all. "Yeah, I guess some of that stuff hadn't come to America yet, back in the day."

"What _did_ they train you in?" Romanoff asked.

"Honestly, I didn't get that much training at all," Steve admitted. He had gone from being a performing monkey in a costume to a combat role without any warning — and without permission, although he'd been amused to discover that that fact did not appear in the history books about him. He had gone through boot camp prior to his selection as the Project Rebirth candidate, true, but they hadn't shown more than the basics of hand-to-hand combat. Most of it had been wasted on him, anyway — at that point, he hadn't been able to get the drop on anyone. He'd learned more about how to throw a good punch from watching Bucky rescuing him from his many tussles in back alleyways. And once he'd been thrown into combat, he had simply improvised as he went.

"You fight like a boxer," Romanoff observed. "Pretty straightforward and simple. I'm not saying it doesn't work for you," she added quickly, looking over at him. "You have us all beat for speed and strength and endurance, and you're doing things with that shield that shouldn't even be possible. But if you're wondering if you could be better if you learned some new things..." She studied him seriously. "I think you could be."

"Well, why didn't Fury set me to learning all that in the first place?" he asked, feeling a little annoyed.

"I don't think he intended to put you out in the field this fast," Romanoff said. "I think he was waiting for you to ask."

Steve mulled this over for a moment. "I think I just did," he said.

Romanoff smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners despite her weariness. "I'll talk to Fury, get it set up for you."

They were both being so understanding that Steve took a risk and asked, "Do you think he'd let me use you both as teachers?" It wasn't just because they were good fighters, although they obviously were. For the first time since he'd woken up, he felt as though he was developing a real rapport with someone, and he hated to let it slip through his fingers. He hadn't realized until now how much he had depended on his friendships with Bucky and the rest of the Commandos.

"Rogers," Romanoff said lazily, closing her eyes and tipping her head back on Barton's shoulder once more, "I think after our performance on this little mission, Fury would give us the whole store if we asked nicely enough. Might as well strike while the iron's hot."

"If you both wanted," Steve added hastily.

Barton grinned, his face creasing deeply and his blue eyes glinting. "Sounds like fun."

The van came to a stop, and a few moments later Agent Hill opened the back doors and let the three of them out. They had pulled up to the curb in front of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Manhattan Headquarters. There were piles of broken masonry all over the sidewalk, and a team of jumpsuited workmen were busily shoveling the rubble into bins for removal.

"Fury wants to debrief you all before he speaks to the Council again," Hill explained as they picked their way through the debris, heading for the front door, "so clean up as quick as you can and then meet in the conference room by his office."

* * *

They did just that — joined in the conference room by Banner, as well as Thor and Stark, after they had accompanied Loki and the Tesseract to secure locations — and they were all put through a rigorous debriefing. The others were tired enough to get a little short-tempered with the whole tedious process, but Steve got a bit of a second wind and powered through to the best of his ability. He had once actually enjoyed debriefings, although that had less to do with taking pleasure in dictating reports and more to do with the person who had usually debriefed him. Well, usually it had been both Colonel Phillips and Peggy taking his reports, but it had been so easy to forget that Phillips was even in the room.

At last, they were finished and the room rapidly cleared, although Fury lingered in the room finishing up a phone call, and Steve waited patiently until he hung up and gave Steve an expectant look.

"Something else?" Fury asked.

"You told me there was a nuclear deterrent," Steve said with some heat. He'd been bursting to say it, but had forced him to keep it until after the debriefing. "You said everyone had them and no one used them."

Fury was quiet for a long moment. "I was wrong about that," he said at last.

"_Wrong_?" Steve stared at him. "Manhattan was almost destroyed because somebody sitting at a desk got an itchy trigger finger, and ignored the communications coming to them from the men on the ground. I almost lost a member of my team in the vacuum of space getting rid of that thing!"

"I thought you hated Stark," Fury said with a maddening casualness.

Steve took a calming breath. "I never said that."

"And what do you mean by _your_ team?" Fury continued, sounding vaguely irritated. "Last I checked, the Avengers were _my _team."

"I may work for you," Steve said coolly, "but Stark and Banner and Thor _don't_. Consider this our declaration of independence: If a situation like this comes up again, we'll handle it together."

Fury gave him a too-knowing look. "With who in charge? You or Stark? 'Cuz he doesn't like to follow orders, and I'm starting to suspect that _you_ don't either."

Steve was taken aback for a moment.

Fury laughed quietly. "That's what I thought. You're setting yourself up for a world of pain, Rogers." He got up from his seat. "Tell you what," he said, stretching his arms out with a weary groan. "You forgive me for being wrong about the nuclear missiles, and I'll forget that you stole one of my jets and two of my agents and went AWOL right in the middle of Armageddon." He took a sip of coffee.

"You wanted me to do that," Steve pointed out.

"Oh, and now you're a mind reader, too?" Fury put his coffee mug down on the table with a clank. "You try a trick like that again, Rogers, and I just may withhold your holiday bonus." He waved Steve away in an obvious dismissal. "You'd better go see the Tesseract off. I had your bike brought here from your apartment; Hill can show you where it's parked. The rest of them are probably on their way to Central Park already."

Steve had fully expected Fury to kick up a fuss about Thor's insistence on taking the Tesseract to Asgard, but to his surprise Fury had accepted the idea without much resistance. Fury wasn't the type to put on a show of contrition, but maybe he had enough humility to recognize that the Tesseract was too great a power for S.H.I.E.L.D. to handle responsibly. He squared his shoulders and strode out of the room to where Maria Hill was waiting for him.

Maybe Fury wasn't as rigid as he seemed.

* * *

Sharon wearily climbed the stairs up to the surveillance center they'd set up in the apartment below Rogers', lugging up two heavy bags full of groceries to restock the fridge for herself and the other agents assigned to watch him. So much for taking a break. With Rogers heading out of the country, Hill had told her she could take a few days off. Next thing Sharon knew, there were aliens pouring down out of a hole in the sky above New York City.

Her fingers ached from pulling triggers. Her ears rang from the gunshots and explosions. Her feet throbbed from rushing around, trying to clear up Chitauri weapons before the wrong people picked them up. Her throat was scratchy from shouting so many orders. Finally, in the aftermath of the battle, someone from S.H.I.E.L.D. had come to spell her. She'd gone home and cleaned up, but instead of going to bed, here she was, coming to relieve Agent Goodman. Rogers was obviously back in New York City, and the moment he was released from the watchful eyes of Romanoff and Barton, he would be back in Sharon's care again.

Sharon entered the apartment and started unloading the groceries. Agent Goodman sauntered into the kitchen.

"Did you see this? Our boy is on TV," he said, gesturing toward the screen in the living room.

Intrigued despite her exhaustion, Sharon finished putting away the food and sat down on the couch to watch.

They _were_ talking about Rogers. Every single channel had a talking head going on about the Avengers, and showing various shaky cellphone videos of them fighting in the streets. Sharon leaned forward as the footage showed Rogers taking down Chitauri like so many toy soldiers. And she had to admit... it was pretty impressive stuff. It was one thing to know that he was stronger and faster than normal. It was something else to watch it.

Goodman helped himself to a prepackaged sandwich and then sauntered out the door with a wave. Alone in the apartment, Sharon kicked off her shoes and settled back on the couch. Her eyes were getting bleary, and yet she couldn't tear away her eyes from the screen. The analyst being interviewed now was flummoxed by Captain America's presence. He kept comparing old photos of Steve Rogers with the footage from New York and Stuttgard, amazed at the similarities and speculating about clones and copycats and plastic surgery. Sharon had to laugh. The real explanation wasn't much more believable than any of those, come to think of it. She wondered when or whether S.H.I.E.L.D. would provide it to the public. So far no official statements had been released.

Her phone rang. Sharon looked down and saw that it was a secure S.H.I.E.L.D. number. Cursing herself for not sleeping while she could, she answered it.

"Agent 13? This is Agent Romanoff," the voice on the other end said. "I'm passing Rogers back off to you. He just left Central Park on his motorcycle and he said he was going straight home. He'll be there in 10 or 15 minutes."

Sharon sat bolt upright on the couch. "OK, I'm on it," she said quickly.

"Have fun babysitting," Romanoff said with a lilt, and hung up.

Struck by a spontaneous urge, Sharon darted into the bedroom and shuffled through the disguises in the closet, quickly settling on a short dark wig and a long jacket. Shoving her feet back into her sneakers, she dashed into the kitchen and feverishly threw some groceries back into the bags, one for each arm. As quickly and quietly as possible, she slipped out the front door and went down the stairwell to the next landing.

She knew she shouldn't be doing this — Fury's instructions to remain invisible had been very clear — but she was so tired of watching Rogers on screens and following him from safe distances. Everyone in New York City was talking about him and hoping to catch a glimpse of him on the streets. Would it really hurt for her to make eye contact with him, just this once? She was well-disguised.

She'd gotten there just in time. She could hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Sharon waited until they were just around the corner, and then started walking up slowly with her groceries.

Rogers caught up to her just as she reached her landing. He was dressed in civvies again, with hair neatly combed. But he looked exhausted, walking with slow methodical steps instead of his usual swift stride. He glanced over at her as she dug around awkwardly in her pocket for her keys, trying not to drop the bags.

"Here, let me help you," he offered, taking the key out of her hand and fitting it into the lock. He opened the door for her, but she only took half a step in, resting the heavy bags against the doorjam.

"Looks like our building is still in one piece," she said conversationally.

Rogers nodded. "Guess we lucked out. Everything two blocks west of here is smashed."

"Could have been worse. Apparently New York has more defenders than we thought," Sharon said. "That's what they're saying on the news, anyway."

The faintest hint of a smile tugged at one corner of his lips, but he held his silence, not taking the obvious opportunity to take credit for anything. His eyes were actually bloodshot, she noticed, now that he was so close to her. And his expression was going slightly glazed.

"You okay?" she asked, cocking her head at him.

He seemed to wake up a little bit. "Yeah, I'm just tired," he said. "I'm gonna go to bed now."

He paused, and then said it again, slowly, like a revelation: "I'm really tired." A sudden smile flashed across his face. "I'm gonna sleep well tonight."

She was so relieved for his sake that it almost hurt her. "Well... goodnight then," she said.

"Goodnight."

He went up the stairs to his apartment, and she went into hers. Setting the bags down in the kitchen again, she glanced at the video feed of his living room, where the personnel files from S.H.I.E.L.D. were clearly visible, lying on the coffee table. Her Aunt Peggy's was right on top. Rogers appeared in the frame, walking through the living room. He didn't pause, or even look toward the stack of papers, but went straight into his bedroom and closed the door.

Sharon smiled, and went into her own bedroom, where she took off her disguise and then flopped onto the bed. Pulling out her phone, she typed a quick message to Fury.

_I take back everything I said. Give Rogers more missions. He needs them._

* * *

"So did he do it?" Agent Sitwell asked curiously, folding his arms and perching on the edge of Fury's desk. "Did Rogers take the Avengers off your hands?"

Fury leaned back in his chair, gave Sitwell a knowing look, and held out his hand expectantly. Sitwell smiled wryly as he pulled a crisp $10 bill out of his wallet and handed it over. Fury accepted it and tucked it into his pocket.

"I don't know what you're going to do with all your spare time now, sir," Sitwell said, shaking his head in mock sympathy.

"I do," Fury said, his smile fading as he looked out the window at the shattered streets below. "I have work to do. We need a quantum surge in threat analysis."

"I completely agree, sir," Sitwell said firmly. "In fact, I have some ideas I'd like to run past you. Remember those plans I worked up last year? The satellite network? The next-generation helicarriers?"

"I remember."

"Now, sir, I know you had some concerns about-" Sitwell started.

"We don't have the luxury of _concerns_ anymore," Fury interrupted with a weary resignation. "The next time something like this happens, I want to be ahead of the curve. At all costs."

Sitwell nodded, a determined look in his dark eyes. "Then I'll pull the plans out of mothballs. Some of the designs are a little dated now, but maybe we can get Stark to take a look at them, make some suggestions. Barton nearly took down our helicarrier with a bow and arrow and a handful of thugs. I think we do better than that."

Fury nodded curtly. "Good. Maybe if I can get more eyes up in the skies-" He adjusted his eyepatch with a grim set to his jaw. "-it will give us a little more insight."

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** I welcome feedback! Let me know what you think in the comments!_


	21. Chapter 21

_**Author's note:** Thanks to PrimeReader, Teyerin, and all my other readers! Your interest is much appreciated._

* * *

**Chapter 21**

"I'm transferring you back to the Triskelion, effective immediately," Nick Fury told Sharon Carter. "You'll remain in Special Service, but Agent Li will be assigning you cases from now on."

Sitting there in Fury's office, Sharon didn't say anything right away, unsure how to react. She should have known change was coming; there were massive readjustments being made to S.H.I.E.L.D. operations in the aftermath of the Battle of New York: new objectives, reshuffled departments, shifts in funding. The very public attack by extraterrestrial hostiles had thrown everything into chaos. Not an agent in S.H.I.E.L.D. had been unaffected.

And yet... five months ago Sharon had been annoyed with her first assignment for Special Service, getting stuck with babysitting her Aunt Peggy's old friend, and now suddenly she was sorry it was ending.

"Understood, sir," she said after a beat. She was glad to be going back to D.C., at least, where so many of her friends lived.

"I also have," Fury continued unexpectedly, "a second assignment for you. This one will be off the record."

"What is it?" Sharon asked.

Fury glanced at his monitor. "Captain Rogers will also be transferring to the Triskelion for intensive training, and to be sent out on regular missions as soon as he's ready. He's moving into an apartment in D.C., and I've secured the apartment next to his. You'll be moving in there and continuing to keep an eye on him."

"It's... going to be a challenge, sir, juggling the two jobs at once-" Sharon started, dismayed, but Fury quickly lifted a hand to forestall her.

"The nature of your assignment has changed," Fury said. "This time you won't need to watch him 24/7. I'm not so concerned about Rogers' stability anymore. It seems he handles missions just fine."

"That's an understatement," Sharon said before she could stop herself, and Fury shot her an odd look before continuing.

"He'll be spending most of each day training with Agents Romanoff and Barton, so they'll keep an eye on him then," he said. "As for his off hours... I want you to start making limited contact with him. Create yourself a cover story. _Limited_ contact, you understand. I don't want him so comfortable that he's coming over to borrow a cup of sugar, but he should know your name and your face."

"With what goal?" Sharon asked, still not fully understanding. Why would she be needed, with agents like Romanoff and Barton on the case?

"Take note of who makes contact with him outside of work hours," Fury said. "Anyone who tries to get close to him. Pay attention to anything and everything that triggers your instincts, but don't put any of that in your official reports. Those will contain nothing but trivialities. Anything important comes directly to me or Maria Hill. No one else."

"Are you still concerned about his loyalty?" Sharon asked, astounded. "After what he just did in New York?"

"I'm concerned with his _safety_," Fury corrected her sternly. "I want you right there, guns loaded, ready to protect him if it should become necessary."

"_Protect _him?" Sharon repeated, frowning. "From what?"

"Anything he needs protecting from."

What was that supposed to mean? What was going on? If Rogers was in danger, surely Fury would know the who and the why. But he was being deliberately opaque with her. How was she supposed to protect him if she didn't even know what she was protecting him from? She studied Fury's face closely. "Sir... what's changed?"

"Your assignment," Fury said, his expression closed. "Will you take it?"

Fury's request was almost identical to Aunt Peggy's original one, and yet Sharon hesitated. What was she getting herself into?

She silently answered her own question. Did it matter? Of all the agents at S.H.I.E.L.D., she was being asked to be Captain America's bodyguard, and there could only be one response to that.

"I'll do it," she said.

* * *

Steve barely had a chance to settle into his new apartment in Washington, D.C. before he was taken to the Triskelion and given a whirlwind tour of the massive edifice on the banks of the Potomac. When Hill was done parading him in front of the various heads of departments that he'd be working with now, he was finally given a day and time to come in and begin training with Clint Barton.

Barton was waiting for him in a private practice room early in the morning, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off to turn it into a tank top. Steve had come wearing sweats and a T-shirt; once, he had hated walking around in tank tops and shorts in men's locker rooms, dreading the inevitable stares of the other men as they tried to figure out if he was a boy or a man because of his small frame, and now he hated it because everyone stared for the exact opposite reason.

Gratefully, Barton did no staring, but simply gave him a cheerful "good morning," chatted for a few minutes asking Steve how he liked his new place, and then asked if he was ready to start. Steve nodded.

"Okay, how can I say this politely?" Barton said, looking at him a little askance as they faced each other on the mat. "Please don't kill me, Captain America."

Steve's lips quirked a little. "I'm not in the habit of killing my sparring partners."

"Because I had a real good view of what you were doing to the Chitauri in New York," Barton continued, "and I couldn't help but notice there were _limbs_ flying through the air."

"I can take it down a notch or ten," Steve reassured him.

"Besides," he added, stooping to pick up his shield, flipping it around in his hands and holding it out toward Barton, "you'll have some protection."

"Whoa." Barton put both hands up in a quick denial. "No, no, no, I don't think I could-"

"It'll absorb the vibration from the blows," Steve said. "Trust me, it'll make things more pleasant for you."

"Yeah, but-" Barton gestured wordlessly at the shield.

"It's a piece of metal," Steve pointed out, guessing where Barton's reluctance was coming from.

Barton laughed shortly in disbelief. "Okay, well, maybe it started out as just a piece of metal, but it isn't that now."

"I taught all my Howling Commandos how to use it," Steve said patiently. "It's good to have people around who know how to toss it back to me if I lose it in the middle of the fight. And sometimes my guys even borrowed it during a mission if they needed it for certain tasks. It isn't a big deal to me. It shouldn't be to you." He held it out again. "It's not like you can break it."

This time, Barton took it carefully in both hands, and then slowly slid his left arm into the straps. Steve stepped closer and tightened the straps for him. Barton looked down at the shield and moved his arm around experimentally. "So does this make me a Howling Commando?" he asked, looking at Steve with a teasing glint in his blue eyes.

"Yeah. This makes it official." Steve slapped his shoulder.

"Why _were_ they called the Howling Commandos?" Barton asked curiously. "I mean, did they actually do any howling?"

"Only after they'd had a few drinks," Steve said. "And I think they thought they were singing."

They spent the next hour working on taekwondo kicks, and then Barton set the shield aside and started showing him some wrestling moves that he said came from a discipline called muy thai. By then Barton had apparently gotten over his fears of dismemberment, as he readily let Steve put him in several different chokeholds after he had demonstrated them properly. Steve had just gotten him pinned again when Natasha Romanoff sauntered into the practice room, wearing a track suit with her phone strapped to her upper arm and a pair of earbuds in her ears. She glanced at them coolly, noting Barton's reddened face currently squished against the mat, and smirked slightly as she settled down into a cross-legged position on the floor and rested her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands, gazing at them with an active interest.

Steve let Barton up, who scrambled to his feet and used the bottom of his tank top to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

"You don't get him for another hour, Nat," he said, fighting to catch his breath.

"I know," she said casually, taking the ear buds out of her ears and unplugging them from her phone.

Barton's sigh sounded more like a growl. "You just came to watch me get my butt whupped."

"Yep," Romanoff said, popping the "p" gleefully.

Barton gave Steve a long-suffering look. "You can make her leave if you want," he said.

Steve smiled a little. "It's okay."

"I won't get in your way," Romanoff reassured them. "In fact, I'll help. I'll provide the workout music. What kind of music do you like, Rogers?" she asked, her finger hovering over the touchscreen of her phone while she looked at him questioningly.

"I don't really know anymore," he was forced to admit. No one listened to the kind of music he was used to, and since waking up from the ice, he had heard a lot of music in shops and on the streets that was objectively awful. Some of it didn't even sound like music to his ears. After all these months, he'd given up on finding anything good.

"Fantastic," Romanoff said, eyes brightening. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. I'll play you things from my playlists, and when you hear something you like, let me know. We'll figure out what bands you like that way."

Barton made a tortured groaning kind of sound. "Nat, don't take him straight to the '80s. That's not gonna work."

"Why not?" Nat asked, putting on a wounded expression as she scrolled through her phone.

"You have to ease him into it," Barton explained as if to a child. "Start him off with Buddy Holly or something. If he likes that, transition into Elvis. Once he's accepted that, then move to the Beatles or the Beach Boys. You can't skip decades, it would be like showing him 'Return of the Jedi' before he's seen 'Star Wars.' He won't be ready for it."

"Butt out, Clint," Romanoff advised in a friendly tone.

Barton rolled his eyes. "Besides," he muttered as he bent down to retie a shoelace, "the '90s had better music than the '80s."

"Oh no, you did not just say that," Nat said, and without warning she dropped her phone and charged over toward Barton at full speed. His fingers were tangled in his shoelaces and he didn't have time to react before Romanoff tackled him and pinned him to the mat, playfully scowling at him.

"Take it back," she said.

"Damn it, Nat," Barton complained, grimacing as she pushed her knee into his chest. "I'm already being punished enough by _him_." He glanced over at Steve, who was trying very hard not to look at Romanoff basically laying on top of Barton and gloating over him with a wicked smile. Couldn't they leave the flirting for when he was in another room? This was unbelievably awkward.

Finally Barton shoved Romanoff off him. "We're working here," he said, getting back to his feet. "Now run along and play with your spy kit, before I report you to Fury."

Romanoff strode over and retrieved her phone from the mat, ignoring Barton. "Here, Rogers," she said. "Try this." She tapped the screen, and a song started to play. She sat there and watched them, twitching her foot to the beat, while Barton showed Steve a new hold.

"You like this one, Rogers?" Romanoff called out toward the end of the song.

He didn't want to hurt her feelings, but it was a weird, weird song. The singer kept asking Annie if she was okay, over and over again. And there was something about bloodstains on a carpet? Steve suppressed a grimace.

"Who is she?" he asked.

"Who, Annie?" Romanoff asked.

"No, the singer."

Romanoff stared at him. "Rogers, this is _Michael_ _Jackson,_" she said.

He frowned. "A woman named Michael?"

Barton was laughing, shaking his head. "Show him a picture, Nat," he said. "That'll clear things right up." He sounded sarcastic.

"You hate it," Romanoff said matter-of-factly, putting a different song on. "Fine. Let's try something different."

"How about this one?" Romanoff asked a few minutes later as the second song was wrapping up.

"Is this really a woman?" he asked cautiously.

Romanoff smiled knowingly. "Yes, it really is a woman this time. This is Madonna."

He squinted one eye in confusion. "Her name is Madonna, and she's _proud_ about being materialistic?"

Barton laughed even harder than he had the last time. "Good thing you didn't play 'Like A Vir-'"

"Shut up, Clint," Romanoff said. She put on a new song.

By the end of the session, Steve knew quite a few muy thai moves, and he also knew that he didn't like the Beastie Boys, Metallica or Duran Duran.

The three of them went down the hallway to the cafeteria to grab something to eat before Romanoff took lead on the training session. Steve could hardly get in more than a bite at a time before yet another agent or three came over to their table wanting to meet him. Now Steve understood why Hill had reserved them a private practice room instead of sending them to the gymnasium. Everyone was polite and friendly, though, and a lot of them seemed to know Barton and lingered to swap a few good-natured insults with him.

Steve couldn't help but notice, though, that not many of them spoke to Romanoff. They would look at her and acknowledge her presence with a faint nod, and then immediately look anywhere but at her until they had left.

After he had picked up on the pattern, Steve guessed it must be because of her past. She had told him that she once worked for the KGB. How long ago had that been? Probably only a few years; Romanoff could not be any older than he was. There were probably people here at S.H.I.E.L.D. who remembered fighting against her. They would not give their trust easily, even if Fury _had_ taken her in and given his stamp of approval; no one liked a turncoat.

Except Clint Barton, apparently. Steve wondered at that. What had Romanoff said or done to earn his trust? Despite his laid-back demeanor, he did not seem naive — and Steve could hardly imagine Fury elevating someone who _was_ into the position of trust Barton obviously occupied. Romanoff must have proved herself in some definitive way. Steve hoped he would find out someday; he had to admit that his curiosity was piqued.

If Romanoff was bothered by the cold shoulders she was getting from the other agents, though, she gave no sign of it. She just calmly sipped at her soda, and responded in a normal tone whenever Barton drew her into the conversation. After a while, they headed back to the practice room and it was Barton's turn to lounge on the edge of the mat and watch while Romanoff faced off against Steve.

"You afraid to hit a woman?" Romanoff asked him as she put both her hands up in a combat-ready posture.

"Not if she hits me first," Steve said.

"Oh, good," Romanoff said, and without any further ado, came at him swinging.

* * *

As the weeks went by, Steve settled into his new routine at the Triskelion. Besides his training with Romanoff and Barton, he also attended as many S.H.I.E.L.D. briefings as he could. He had a lot of catching up to do when it came to understanding modern geopolitical conditions, and he found that the briefings gave him better information than reading the newspaper had.

In fact, he was kicking himself now for the amount of time he had spent over the past few months trying to get a handle on all the changes to European borders and governments over the years. It seemed like everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. was more concerned about the Middle East and China, places he had never visited or even really studied in-depth. He decided to learn as much about them as quickly as possible, having no desire to let Fury simply point him at a battlefield as he would a weapon. Whatever missions S.H.I.E.L.D. set for him, he wanted to be sure he understood exactly what he was doing and why.

The first time he attended a briefing, he struck up a conversation afterward with the agent sitting by him, a curly-headed technician by the name of Cameron Klein. Agent Klein became visibly flustered the moment he realized who was addressing him, but he readily answered Steve's questions about some of the things discussed in the briefing that he hadn't understood, and despite an unfortunate stammer his answers were so helpful that after that, Steve made a point of sitting by him as often as possible. Pretty soon Klein got over some of his nervousness, and at the end of every briefing they'd linger in the room, talking over the topic of the day. Sometimes they were joined by Maria Hill or, more rarely, Fury. Fury had his hands in so many different projects that Steve didn't see him often, although the director made a point of speaking to Steve whenever he came by.

And he was learning one other important skill, with the help of Bruce Banner.

STEVE ROGERS: Hello, Bruce.

BRUCE BANNER: hi

STEVE ROGERS: I'm learning how to text.

BRUCE BANNER: am i your guinea pig

STEVE ROGERS: I hope that's okay.

BRUCE BANNER: im honored

STEVE ROGERS: Sorry, I am a slow typer.

BRUCE BANNER: heres a hint

BRUCE BANNER: stop capitalizing and puncuating

BRUCE BANNER: saves time

STEVE ROGERS: I don't want to look uneducated.

BRUCE BANNER: its texting no one cares

STEVE ROGERS: I heard most people go to college now. I didn't. I'm trying not to embarrass myself here.

BRUCE BANNER: i have 7 phds

BRUCE BANNER: srsly, no one cares STOP CAPITIZING

STEVE ROGERS: I just tried.

STEVE ROGERS: I can't do it.

STEVE ROGERS: It looks awful.

STEVE ROGERS: What is srsly?

BRUCE BANNER: seriously

STEVE ROGERS: How are things in Stark Tower? Is Tony with you?

BRUCE BANNER: no i work on the 6th floor i dont always see him

BRUCE BANNER: he runs all over creation all day long

BRUCE BANNER: hes like the energizer bunny

STEVE ROGERS: A bunny?

BRUCE BANNER: google it you will get a laugh

STEVE ROGERS: I just watched. That is funny.

BRUCE BANNER: well dont say its funy

BRUCE BANNER: type LOL

BRUCE BANNER: it means laughing out loud

STEVE ROGERS: This is like learning another language.

BRUCE BANNER: yep

BRUCE BANNER: food's here brb

STEVE ROGERS: brb?

STEVE ROGERS: Bruce?

STEVE ROGERS: Hello?

BRUCE BANNER: brb means be right back

STEVE ROGERS: Oh.

* * *

Sharon had settled on being a nurse for her cover story. Rogers' mother had been a nurse, and maybe he would have some instinctive trust associated with that. It would also nicely explain any odd hours she might have to keep, fulfilling her other duties for S.H.I.E.L.D.

It was strange, moving in next door to Rogers and not bringing any disguises with her. It would be her own face that Rogers would see. Her own hair, her own clothing, her own personality. An assignment like this called for being herself as much as possible, since authenticity was easier than keeping a lot of lies straight. She was looking forward to that part, after so many months of being invisible. She would actually get to know him for real.

She waited a few weeks to make first contact with Rogers, wanting to watch him get settled in first. He quickly established a new routine, and to her relief it was predictable and meshed even better with her own work schedule than she had hoped. Rogers would get up pre-dawn and go for a long run around the National Mall, then go back home to get ready for the day. Then he'd head to work at the Triskelion, and so would Sharon. She kept to the east tower, reserved for agents Level 6 and up in the Special Service division. Rogers had been assigned to Level 5 for starters, and he spent most of his time in the training facilities in the north tower.

He worked long hours every day. He didn't come home until well after dinner, hours after Sharon had gotten home, and he never went out on weeknights or had any visitors then. He would spend an hour or two sketching, reading books or watching movies — he was methodically checking off items on his running list of pop culture phenomenons he had missed — and then he would go to bed.

That meant she really only had to keep tabs on him during the weekends. On Saturdays he ate breakfast at the same cafe, where he was starting to make friends with the regular crowd, and then he would run errands and clean his apartment. On Sundays he went to church — he had found one with a traditional Latin Mass and seemed to have made an immediate connection with the priest there — and then he would go to a park for a walk, followed by a visit to a veterans nursing home.

After a few weeks of this, she contrived to meet him by coming out of her apartment at the same time he was coming in one night. She had curled her hair and dressed nicely, as if she were going out with friends — which she actually was. Her assignment to watch him back in New York had been so time-consuming that for a while her social life had come to a screeching halt, but now that her schedule was more liberated and she was back in D.C., she was back in the swing of things and loving it.

Rogers came up the stairs just as she was locking her door. He nodded and smiled at her in a friendly way as he reached into his pocket for his own keys.

"You must be my new neighbor," she said.

"Yeah, I moved in just a few weeks ago," he said, gesturing vaguely toward his door. "Just in time to see the cherry blossoms."

"Good timing. They were as nice as I've ever seen them this year," she said conversationally. "I bet they don't have anything like that at... wherever you came from."

"New York," he supplied readily. "Actually, they do. There's a botanical garden in Brooklyn that's more than a hundred years old. They've had cherry trees there since-" He stopped himself. "For a long time."

Talking to him in person was surprisingly different from watching him on cameras. Sharon knew all his facial expressions, knew his mannerisms and his habits, but now, standing so close to him, making eye contact, interacting with him... it really _was_ like meeting a stranger for the first time. She was even catching a whiff of his after-shave, something she'd never been close enough to take note of before.

"I'm Kate, by the way," she said, smiling and holding out her hand.

"Steve," he said, coming over to shake her hand. He had a firm grip, but not too firm. "Nice to meet you, Kate. So how long have you lived here?"

"Couple of years."

"You like it here?"

"I love it," she said, glad that she could be completely sincere. "There's so much history here. You know that statue of Washington on his horse? I get to drive past that every day. And I can see the Washington Monument from the windows where I work."

"Where's that?" he asked.

"George Washington University Hospital," she said. "I'm a nurse there. How about you? What do you do?"

Rogers looked down and shrugged a little, obviously reluctant to answer, and she had some idea of why. She had watched him long enough to know that he had an intriguing combination of pure honesty and unfeigned modesty, which meant he didn't always love talking about himself. No matter how he worded it, a simple, truthful explanation of his job description would sound an awful lot like bragging. _I save the world for a living, how about you?_

"Wait, don't tell me. Let me guess," Sharon said quickly, sparing him the discomfort. She squinted one eye, studying him. "Police officer?" she hazarded.

He raised his eyebrows a little. "Do I look like a police officer?"

Sharon nodded, assuming a thoughtful expression. "I could see you wearing a uniform," she said casually.

She could practically see the gears in his head turning, trying to figure out if she knew who he really was or not. He was recognized on the streets on a regular basis now, ever since the Battle of New York and a flurry of media interviews that had followed, and he was unfailingly polite to people who approached him, taking a few minutes to engage them in conversation or give autographs if they asked. But she often got the impression that he didn't really crave those interactions for his own sake. He never seemed offended when he _wasn't_ recognized, at least.

"That's a good guess," he said. He neither confirmed it nor denied it, though.

She smiled to herself, and then she adjusted her purse on her shoulder. "Well, I've got to run. I'm late to meet my friends. It was nice to meet you, Steve."

He nodded. "See you around, Kate."

As spring turned into summer, it became a game that they played each time they passed each other in the hall and made small talk. She would make a new guess about his profession — Welder? Schoolteacher? Bar bouncer? — and he would dance around the topic and never really confirm or deny. It became her mission to think up jobs that would get good reactions from him. So far the best one she had gotten from him was the day she guessed "social media director."

"Social media director?" he repeated, scrunching up his face in disbelief.

"Am I getting warmer?" she asked innocently.

"You're in the freezer," he said.

"You don't like social media?" she asked curiously.

"I don't really see the appeal," he admitted. "I'd rather look someone in the eye when I'm talking to them, wouldn't you?"

"You have a point," she admitted, smiling because he was looking her in the eye right just then. He was good at eye contact, she had discovered. She never felt like his attention was elsewhere when they spoke. He never once looked down at his phone, although he had finally started carrying around a mobile one. He was fully present for every interaction.

He suffered from insomnia more rarely now, and never two nights in a row. Gone were the days when he haunted the city streets like the living dead, and it was an intense relief to Sharon. He seemed much happier. Stable enough to please even Fury, who she updated on a regular basis.

She kept Aunt Peggy updated on Rogers often, too, although sometimes Sharon found herself having to repeat the same stories she had already told Aunt Peggy during the last call. The Alzheimer's was advancing, and she was growing more forgetful. Pretty soon Sharon learned to call Aunt Sarah and tell her all the same things, so she could keep reminding her mother. In her more lucid moments, Aunt Peggy was still intensely interested in and concerned about Rogers and the progress he was making, but at other times she reverted to living in the past.

"But Steve is here," she would sometimes say in puzzled tones after Sharon had explained something Rogers had done, and then Sharon would have to patiently explain the whole thing all over again. Sometimes it was easier just to agree with Aunt Peggy and let her believe that Steve Rogers was there with her. Maybe she was happier during the times that she lived in the past. But it broke Sharon's heart to hear her Aunt Peggy talk that way. Her mind had always been so sharp. It was a normal part of aging, Sharon knew, but that didn't make it any easier to bear.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** What do you think of the direction the story is taking? Let me know in the comments! I'm trying to decide how long to keep this story going. _

_I have more chapters written that lead up to "The Winter Soldier," and I have some ideas for more chapters that could: (1) explain what Clint was doing during the Hydra Uprising, (2) show what Sharon did after her shootout with Rumlow and the STRIKE team, which will involve Peggy Carter's children and grandchildren as well (readers of my story The Third Life of Steve Rogers will be able to spot characters who will now make appearances in both stories) and (3) scenes in the immediate aftermath of Steve and Bucky's fight on the helicarrier that will focus on Steve, Nat and Tony Stark and address the whole sticky topic of the Winter Soldier. _

_I'd love to know how far the readers want to see this go. And as usual, comments on this specific chapter are welcome as well._


	22. Chapter 22

_**Author's note:** Thanks to MagicLia16, , Nimrodel 101, PrimeReader and Teyerin for your reviews! I'm going to keep on writing chapters._

* * *

**Chapter 22**

"I call this maneuver The Corkscrew," Clint explained to Steve one day at practice, getting into a new stance.

After weeks of daily lessons, Steve was not only learning modern combat at a rapid pace, but he was also getting to know Clint and Nat better. The three of them were all on a first-name basis now, and frequently had dinner together in the cafeteria even after they'd spent the entire day together training. Apparently the two of them weren't sick of Steve's company yet; in fact, just yesterday Nat had cracked a joke about how Bonnie and Clyde were morphing into the Three Amigos, to which Clint replied that it was really more like the Three Stooges, which was a reference Steve got.

"This move's good for when you need to dodge an airborne attack," Clint continued, "because it puts your body at an angle that's less predictable than just diving to one side or the other. Plus, it lets you land on your feet, and then you're in a position to strike back. I've used this fighting a swarm of military drones in Bolivia, and once in Thailand when some guy came swinging down on me from the rafters on a grappling line. Works like a dream."

He took a quick couple of steps and launched his body into the air laterally, pulling his arms in tight against his chest as he rotated a full two times before coming down nimbly on his feet again.

Steve raised his eyebrows in approval. "I like that."

Clint grinned, his cheeks creasing deeply. "Good, huh? Want to see it again?"

"Yeah."

Clint demonstrated it a few more times, and then motioned for Steve to try.

The first couple of attempts were a little clumsy, but Steve quickly got a feel for how he needed to adjust his body, and his third and fourth tries felt much better.

"How was that?" he asked Clint.

Clint narrowed his eyes at Steve. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to learn that move?"

"How long?"

Clint waved his hand vaguely. "I can't remember. Too long. And it was a little embarrassing, too, because the guy who taught it to me — Agent 45, one of my trainers at S.H.I.E.L.D. — he must have been over 50. _Fifty_! And he could perform that twist to perfection." Clint laughed in delight, remembering. "Made my whole group of trainees look like klutzes. Wish I'd thought to ask him his secret before he finally retired. He must have been on a high-protein diet or something. I mean, I'm only in my 40s, and I'm already starting to feel it."

Clint was quiet for a moment, and then added, "He was the first person who ever put a bow in my hand."

"No kidding."

"Yeah," Clint said as he sat down on the mat to catch his breath, leaning his back against the wall and stretching out his legs. Steve sat down next to him. "You know, when I came in, I was already a pretty crack shot with a gun," Clint continued. "I grew up in the country, and we had our own targeting range and everything. So the agents were teaching the other trainees how to shoot, but there wasn't much they could show me that I didn't already know. I'd been shootin' since I was a kid. I have a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Agent 45 just wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off my face. I think he figured he would give me some unconventional weapon I'd never touched before and knock some humility into me that way."

"So how did you do?"

"The first few times shooting a bow?" Clint asked. "I sucked. But I loved it." His eyes grew a little distant. "I really loved it. It was a good challenge. So I kept at it, I got better. And then one thing led to another. I got to know Quinn in R&D — have you met him?" Steve nodded. "And he and I started tinkering around, bouncing ideas off each other for trick arrows that could do all kinds of different things, and after a while I realized it was much more versatile, much more precise, than just spraying bullets everywhere." He shrugged a little. "I never looked back."

They were quiet for a minute. Then Steve said, "Hey, remember when Stark called you Legolas?"

"Oh yeah," Clint said, and laughed in remembrance.

"I finally remembered to look that up," Steve said. "It's from a movie called 'Lord of the Rings.' Seen it?"

"Yeah, when it first came out. It's been a while now."

"I guess the author wrote it because of the war," Steve added. "My war, I mean. It sounded interesting."

"It was pretty good," Clint agreed. "One of those classic good versus evil stories, you know? And it didn't have any language or sex or anything. You'd like it."

"You wanna come over and watch it with me?"

"Yeah, sure," Clint said readily. "When?"

"This Saturday?"

"I have plans for the weekend," Clint said.

It seemed like Clint always had plans for the weekend. Throughout the week he would give his work his full attention, but when Friday afternoon hit, it was like he couldn't get out of the Triskelion fast enough. And he never said what his plans were. At first Steve suspected he was running missions for Fury on the weekend that were too sensitive to be openly discussed, but that didn't really seem to fit. Because when Clint came back on Monday morning, he always seemed happy and well-rested, more like he'd just come back from a vacation.

"It'll have to be a weeknight," Clint continued. "We'll have to watch it in installments though. They're long movies. You want it to be just you and me, or should we include Nat?"

"She can come too," Steve said.

If he was being honest with himself, his first thought had actually been to invite Nat, not Clint. But he'd instantly second-guessed that. What if she thought he was asking her out on a date?

It wasn't that the thought of being on a date with Nat was unpleasant. Intimidating, more like it. But mostly, Steve hadn't yet been able to figure out what the deal was between her and Clint. Were they, or weren't they? They were so comfortable with each other. Sometime he was sure that they were a couple. Nat had taken to constantly teasing Steve about the various women who worked in their building, trying to get him to ask one of them out. But she never once suggested such a thing to Clint. That seemed revealing to Steve. And a couple of times Nat had left on a Friday afternoon with the same alacrity as Clint, and Steve had suspected that wherever he was going, she was going with him.

And yet there were no obvious signs that they were together... and no reason Steve could think of why they would keep something like that a secret. And there was something else. More and more, Nat was sticking around on weekends, sometimes cajoling Steve into going various places with her while Clint was off doing whatever it was he was doing. The two of them had gone to see some of the historic sites around D.C., and even taken a boat ride up and down the Potomac one day.

Steve had figured that all of that had just been a friends-spending-time-with-friends thing. The social rules for men and women spending time together seemed to be much looser now, and it was all a little vague and confusing, but as far as Steve could tell he and Nat were doing what everyone nowadays called "hanging out."

But he still wasn't 100 percent sure that there was nothing between Nat and Clint. And that uncertainty was a problem because Steve knew, or at least hoped, that he'd be working with them both regularly once this training phase was over. So whenever Nat starting talking to Steve in a way that felt flirtatious or even started playfully roughhousing with him the way she always did with Clint, he would try to subtly but politely back away. Whatever was going on, he didn't want to get caught in the middle of it.

"Nat's coming," Clint suddenly said, catching a glimpse of her through the narrow window set in the door of the practice room, and without needing to consult with each other, he and Steve guiltily jumped to their feet and quickly got into fighting stances. Every time Nat happened to walk in while they were taking a break or had gotten distracted by an interesting conversation, she would tease them mercilessly for their "laziness."

Their ruse today actually worked, and in short order Clint had bowed out of the session to attend a briefing while Nat, as usual, put on music from her '80s playlist to listen to while she and Steve practiced.

It was free-style today, which was the way Nat preferred, and they had only been going a few minutes when she launched into one of her flying kicks that ended with her legs wrapped around his neck as she used the weight of her entire body and his own momentum to jerk him down to the ground. Except by now Steve had seen enough of that type of maneuver from her that today he was ready for it. He started to fall the way she had intended, but then grabbed her and whirled at the last second and ended up landing on top of her instead, careful to catch most of his weight on his hands and knees instead of body-slamming her as he could have, since this was only practice. In a flash he had one hand wrapped around her throat, although of course he didn't squeeze. She blinked at him a couple of times, bemused.

"I think this means you're dead," he informed her politely.

"Huh. That usually works," Nat said mildly, gazing up at him.

"Hey, Nat," he said, still holding her down. "Guess what?"

"What?"

"I kinda like this song."

Nat's eyes practically beamed up at him in surprise and delight. "Finally!"

He released the hold, got up and held out his hand to pull her back onto her feet. "What is it?" he asked.

She smiled widely. "Billy Joel's 'Uptown Girl.' You really like it? For real?"

"I really like it," he admitted.

"See, I _knew_ I could get you to like '80s music," Nat said triumphantly. "And Billy Joel's written tons of songs. I have some of his CDs at home. I'll bring them tomorrow for you to borrow."

"I don't have a CD player," Steve confessed.

Nat frowned at him. "Then how do you listen to music at your place?"

"I bought a record player. At an antique shop."

"_Seriously, _Steve?" Nat pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, shaking her head sadly.

"What? What's wrong with that?" How else was he supposed to listen to his records? He'd found some great ones of the old big-band music: Harry James and Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman... He was starting to get a good collection going.

"You can't take a record player with you on the train," Nat said impatiently. "You can't listen to music standing in line, or while you jog, or..."

"I don't need to listen to music then," Steve said.

"You're only saying that because you've never tried it," Nat said. "Steve, I am going to bring you into the 21st century if I have to drag you kicking and screaming." She dug around in the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a tiny, square device with earbuds attached. "Here. You can borrow my MP3 player until you get your own. Try this."

She reached up to tuck the earbuds into his ears, but he backed away before she could do it. "So I can walk around like a zombie with a little machine in my ear, just like everyone else?" he said.

"Yes," Nat said firmly. "You're going to love it." She showed him the tiny screen of her music player. "This is how you scroll through the list," she said. "See, here's my Billy Joel collection. Push this button to play."

"I'm not gonna use that," he said stubbornly.

Nat shot him a look of pure exasperation that lasted an uncomfortably long time. "Would it kill you to bend a little?" she asked at last.

He stared right back, unwavering. "It might."

She threw up her hands in exasperation and stalked away in defeat. Or at least he thought so. It was only after he had left the Triskelion for the day and arrived at the barbershop to await his turn for a haircut that he put his hands in his pockets to make sure he had his wallet, when he discovered Nat's music player and earbuds had been tucked in there without him ever noticing.

Annoyed, and yet flattered by her persistence all the same, Steve stared at the music player for a long moment, and then shrugged in resignation and put the earbuds in his ears. He was going to be sitting here a while waiting his turn anyway, and none of the other men waiting next to him seemed inclined to talk... they were all absorbed in their own devices.

_If I can't beat them, might as well join them,_ he thought.

He pushed play, and nearly jumped out of his skin as "Uptown Girl" started to play. For a couple of panicked seconds he hunted around for the volume button to turn it down, but gradually he realized it actually _wasn't_ too loud. It was just that the sound was so intimate, coming straight into his ears like that. It was like having music piped directly into his brain. It was almost too much, and yet it was just enough.

He glanced around at the people next to him, hoping he wasn't bugging them with his music, but no one even looked over at him. They couldn't hear it. It was like he was in his own soundproofed cocoon.

He sat back and listened to Billy Joel sing about honesty. About how much he loved New York. About how women were kind until they were cruel, and how they never gave up or gave in... they just changed their minds. Steve had to listen to that song twice, amazed at how perfectly the lyrics explained some things about women that he had never really understood before. Why couldn't he have found this sooner?

By the time Steve had listened to four or five songs, he realized that he didn't really like Billy Joel's music.

He _loved_ it.

In fact, he was so absorbed in the music that the barber had to call his name three times before he noticed, and guiltily Steve jerked the earbuds out of his ears and hurriedly stuffed them back in his pocket before heading over to the chair.

"What are we doing? Just a trim?" the man asked.

Steve opened his mouth to say yes, and then hesitated. He had met a lot of S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel over the last few weeks, and he couldn't help but notice that the only men who had a haircut like his — parted and combed neatly over to the side — were the gray-haired desk jockeys who were nearing retirement. He didn't really want to change his hair — he hadn't thought twice about it during his stay in New York — and yet...

For the first time it occurred to him that sticking to his 1940s habits might not look like devotion to the good old days to everyone else. Maybe it looked like pride, like he was setting himself apart from them. Like he thought his ways were better than theirs.

Maybe there was even a grain of truth to that.

Steve scratched his nose thoughtfully, and then met the barber's eyes in the mirror.

"Can you do something to make it a little more..." he started, and then trailed off.

"Sexy?" the barber finished.

"No!" Steve said quickly. "No, no. Just... modern. But I don't want it to stick straight up like I just got out of bed," he added quickly.

"It only does that if you gel it that way," the barber said. "But we can cut it shorter on top, and lose the part."

Fifteen minutes later Steve went outside. His hair was shorter, he had ear buds in his ears, and he walked to his motorcycle with an involuntary bounce to his step as Billy Joel sang passionately about a river of dreams.

He'd bent. Just a little bit. Nat was going to be so proud of him.

* * *

**Two weeks later**

STEVE ROGERS: Help.

BRUCE BANNER: dont says its aliens again

BRUCE BANNER: not in the mood for code green

STEVE ROGERS: I just got a girl's phone number.

BRUCE BANNER: thats even worse

STEVE ROGERS: What do I do?

BRUCE BANNER: dont call

STEVE ROGERS: I'm laughing.

STEVE ROGERS: I mean, LOL.

BRUCE BANNER: im not joking DONT CALL

STEVE ROGERS: Why?

BRUCE BANNER: because youll look desperate

BRUCE BANNER: text her insted

STEVE ROGERS: Srsly? I have to ask her out by text? That doesn't seem right.

BRUCE BANNER: dont ask her out steve just say sup or something

STEVE ROGERS: Is that a typo?

BRUCE BANNER: no sup means whats up

BRUCE BANNER: it means what is happening

STEVE ROGERS: I'm confused.

BRUCE BANNER: ok back up when did you get her number where did you meet

STEVE ROGERS: At Central Park. Her Frisbee got stuck in a tree when she threw it for her dog. I got it unstuck.

STEVE ROGERS: The Frisbee, not the dog.

STEVE ROGERS: That happened today.

BRUCE BANNER: ok wait 2 or 3 days and then text sup.

BRUCE BANNER: dont ask her out for a week or two just keep texting but not too much

STEVE ROGERS: Are you sure?

BRUCE BANNER: no you are talking to a single guy

BRUCE BANNER: if you want good advice talk to tony

STEVE ROGERS: I don't think so.

BRUCE BANNER: yeah his methods might not work for you

BRUCE BANNER: steve if you blow this it wont be hard to get more phone numbers

BRUCE BANNER: you're famous

STEVE ROGERS: She didn't recognize me at first. That's why I liked her.

STEVE ROGERS: We had a normal conversation. It was nice.

BRUCE BANNER: that does sound nice

BRUCE BANNER: i think im a little jealous

STEVE ROGERS: Should I see if she has a friend?

BRUCE BANNER: what a friend who likes men who turn green and go insane

BRUCE BANNER: ?

STEVE ROGERS: My mother always said there's a lid for every pot.

BRUCE BANNER: LOL

BRUCE BANNER: funny but not

BRUCE BANNER: i had a lid for my pot once

STEVE ROGERS: What happened?

BRUCE BANNER: she was general ross daughter

STEVE ROGERS: Oh.

STEVE ROGERS: Sorry.

BRUCE BANNER: i try not to think about it

BRUCE BANNER: it still makes me mad

BRUCE BANNER: thats not safe for anyone

* * *

"Steve," Clint said cautiously, "are you sure this is a good idea?"

Steve handed the shield to Nat and glanced over at Clint. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Clint raised his eyebrows, but didn't deign to answer directly. "Your funeral," he said with a shrug.

"Are you afraid I'll be good, Clint, or that I _won't _be?" Nat asked, trying the shield on and looking down to admire the results. Several hundred feet away, a target had been set up in a spacious storage room in the bowels of the Triskelion, since the mirror-filled training room was not well-suited for what they were doing today.

"It's a toss-up," Clint said. Having said his piece, he wandered off aimlessly, bow in hand, while Steve turned to Nat.

"Ever throw a discus?" he asked her. "For track and field in high school or something like that?"

"I've thrown a lot of things at a lot of people," Nat said. "Can't say a discus was one of them." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "How about you?" she asked. "I bet you were the star of the track team, right? Or were you more of a football man?"

"I didn't do sports in high school," he confessed, ducking his head a little. "I was... kinda a late bloomer."

She laughed lightly, as he knew she would, and he smiled back.

"Okay," he said. "We'll start at the beginning."

He explained the basics of shield-slinging to her, and then had her make her first couple of attempts. Just then a song started to play, one with a fast drumbeat and a strumming guitar, echoing around the large room. A man started to sing: _"All of my love, all of my kissin', you don't know what you've been missin', oh boy! When you're with me, oh boy!"_

The song went along at a fast clip as Nat tossed the shield and Steve retrieved it for her. Every now and again the singer was putting a funny little hitch in his voice, almost like a high-pitched hiccup, and in a weird way it actually worked. The song felt light-hearted and a little bit silly and... just plain good fun.

"Hey Nat," Steve said. "I like this song, too. What is it?"

"I don't know," Nat said as she took the shield back for another try. "That's Clint's phone, not mine."

"It's Buddy Holly," Clint said from where he was kicking back against a stack of storage crates, his legs stretched out comfortably on the floor and his bow leaning against the crates nearby. "And I _told_ you so." He gave Nat a smug smile.

"Told me so, what?" Nat asked, mystified.

"I told you we should have started Steve on this kind of music, remember?"

"No, what you said was, 'Steve can't go straight to '80s music,'" Nat reminded him. "And I already made him love Billy Joel, which means I'm the one who proved _you_ wrong!"

"Nat, 'Uptown Girl' was throwback music," Clint explained patiently as he got back to his feet. "Billy Joel was doing _doo-wop_. Like Buddy Holly, which is exactly where I told you to start him off!"

Nat let out an exasperated sigh and hurled the shield at the target, hitting it dead-center... and then ducking as the shield came careening back at an angle she was clearly not expecting.

"I just got him to like '80s music, Clint, don't ruin it!" she shot back.

"It's impossible to ruin Buddy Holly." Clint cranked up the volume on his phone, picked up his water bottle and held it in front of him like a microphone as he began to sing along with the song:

_"Stars appear and the shadows are fallin', you can hear my heart a-callin'-"_ Clint rocked side to side to the beat, belting it out. _"A little bit a-lovin' makes everything right, and I'm gonna see my baby tonight, yeah!" _

Steve's eyebrows went up. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. Clint was... _good_. He was putting a rough edge to his voice, like all the rock-n-roll musicians did, but he was hitting the notes spot on and singing the words with both clarity and style. Steve glanced at Nat, not hiding his amazement, and she grinned back at him and shouted over the music with a big grin: "Clint's the king of karaoke!" He didn't know what that meant, but she was probably right.

Nat spontaneously started dancing toward Clint, shaking her head in a cloud of red curls. Clint didn't stop singing, but he dropped the water bottle, grabbed Nat's hands and started dancing with her, both of them laughing at their own badly executed choreography.

Steve smiled, watching them... but after a bit, he also backed away before one of them got the brilliant idea to suck him into their little song and dance routine, and instead wandered over to where Clint had left his bow leaning against a target.

Curious, Steve picked up the bow, got it into what he hoped was the proper position in his hands, and gave the string an experimental tug. He'd never held one of these before.

"You wanna try it?" Clint asked, coming up unexpectedly behind Steve, slightly out of breath from his singing and dancing. A new Buddy Holly song had started, a more low-key one. Nat had gone back to her shield-slinging.

"Yeah," Steve admitted.

Clint handed him an arrow. "Okay. Fit that to the string. Yep. And pull back. More, more, more."

"Don't wanna break it." The bow felt just a little too fragile in his hands, like it could snap at any second.

"If you break it, I'll kill you. No, I'm just kidding. Well, maybe not. Seriously though, pull back more. It's bendy, it can take it. There, perfect. Now, look at the target..."

Steve got the bullseye in his sights.

"I shouldn't be showing you this," Clint muttered. "You're probably gonna put me out of a job."

Steve wasn't so sure Clint needed to worry about that. He didn't know which arrow tip to focus on; there appeared to be _two_ of them. He squinched one eye shut. There, that was better. Now there was only one arrow tip.

"Hey, Steve," Clint said. "Do you close one eye when you throw your shield?"

"No," he murmured distractedly, wondering if he was supposed to inhale or exhale when he released the arrow.

"Then don't close one when you shoot my bow. Dope." Clint slapped him lightly upside the head. Behind them, Nat threw the shield again, badly, and it clattered against the wall in an anti-climatic way. Clint laughed at her, and Nat scowled at him.

"You think you're so smooth?" she asked Clint. She scooped up something off the ground and tossed it at Clint, who instinctively caught it. "Try that, and then we'll see who's laughing."

Clint looked down at what he was holding, and Steve recognized Nat's Widow's Bite bracelets.

Clint smirked. "Tasers. Big whoop. I've used these before."

"Not like that, you haven't."

Clint wrapped the bracelets around his wrists and glanced up at Nat in a totally unconcerned way.

"Don't forget to turn off the-" Nat started.

Clint clenched both fists to activate the bracelets. Twin blue sparks flew, and suddenly Clint grunted wordlessly and hit the ground while Steve looked down at him, bemused, still holding the bow.

Nat came to stand over Clint's writhing form.

"-anti-theft device," she finished coolly.

Clint grunted and gasped, rolling side to side on the ground for endless agonizing seconds, and then ground out some very bad words.

"Oh behave yourself, Steve can hear you, you know," Nat said.

Eventually Clint staggered back to his feet, red-faced, and looked in disgust at the bracelets wrapped around his wrists.

"Don't push any more buttons," Nat advised. "You might set it off again."

"Get these things off me!" Clint demanded.

"Now?"

"No, _yesterday_!"

"Like this?" Nat asked, raising the shield edge-first and shooting Steve a questioning glance.

"Works great for getting handcuffs off," Steve said.

"No, not like that!" Clint exclaimed, backing up out of Nat's reach. "I want to keep my hands, thank you very much! Do you know how many alien limbs I saw flying in New York thanks to that little maneuver?!"

"It isn't _that_ sharp," Nat said, running a fingertip appreciatively around the rim of the shield.

"It crushes more than slices," Steve agreed.

Suddenly there was a loud bang that echoed unnaturally loud in the open space, and all three of them jumped, Nat crouching instinctively behind the shield, Steve pointing the bow toward the source of the noise even though his arrow had slipped off the string, and Clint raising both his bracelet-fortified fists in a threatening way despite the fact that he was still wobbling from his own self-inflicted tasing.

An utterly mystified Maria Hill, armed with a tablet held loosely down by her side, stared back at the three of them.

"Oh," Steve said foolishly, lowering the bow as Nat, by his side, slowly straightened up from behind the shield. Clint quickly put his hands behind his back in a belated attempt to hide the Widow's Bite.

"I am so confused right now," Maria said, eyes darting back and forth among the three of them.

"We were just-" Steve started.

Maria held up a palm meaningfully. "You know what? I don't even want to know. Knowing you three, you'll make me forget what I came in here for in the first place."

"Which is?" Nat asked.

She focused on Steve. "A change in your training, starting next week. Fury feels like you've had enough instruction. Now he wants to test out what you've learned and how well you've learned it."

"How do we do that?" Steve asked.

"We'll put you through some war games." She glanced at Nat and Clint. "Not with these two. You probably know too much about their styles by now. We'll put you with a new group, see if they can throw any surprises your way."

"You're gonna kick their butts, Steve," Clint said. "You're gonna make us proud."

"Who is it?" Steve asked.

"STRIKE team," Maria said. "Brock Rumlow's making a plan for you right now."

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** What do you think of Steve's developing relationship with the other Avengers? Reviews are welcomed!_

_(By the way... Jeremy Renner really does have a great singing voice. Look him up on YouTube sometime.)_


	23. Chapter 23

_**Author's note:** Thanks to distanceincrowdedrooms, Nimrodel 101, Spidershadow 5, Lamarquise, Flickerflame8, LoverGurrl411, MagicLia16, kaufmann .dann, and everyone else who leaves reviews. It really makes a difference! You guys keep me on my toes and encourage me, too._

_To LaMarquise, I was aware of Tolkien's service in WWI, but he was also deeply affected by WWII and was apparently horrified by the use of atomic bombs in Japan. He may not have set out to write LOTR as a metaphor for WWII, but I have no doubt it affected his worldview. It was a tough time to be an Englishman. Thanks for your feedback!_

_And to Flickerflame8, who asked about Clint Barton's backstory: my rule of thumb for this fanfic is to take all movie content as canon, and to use deleted scenes and any knowledge I have of the comics as potential for inspiration or to leave on the shelf as the needs of my story dictate. I'm aware Clint has a different story in the comics, but one of the things I like about the MCU depiction is that he is the only "normal" guy on the OG Avengers team, which really makes him stand out from everyone else who has had bad relationships with and/or lost their parents too early, or has serious trauma from experiments gone wrong or PTSD or time displacement or KGB brainwashing, etc. He even has a normal, healthy romantic relationship. The world is positively full of people like the MCU Clint Barton, and I enjoy portraying him as a note of hope that not everyone has to have a dark backstory!_

* * *

**Chapter 23**

The next morning Steve arrived at one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s outdoor obstacle courses, as instructed, to find Brock Rumlow in a jovial mood as his men were getting things set up.

"I've been looking forward to this," Rumlow said, reaching out to shake Steve's hand in a friendly way. His chin was shadowed with the usual day's worth of scruff. "We've been itching for a good challenge. Ain't we, boys?" Several of the men agreed loudly. They were a boisterous group despite the early hour, laughing and insulting each other in a good-natured way as they arranged the equipment.

"It's gonna be one against two dozen," Rumlow said, squinting at Steve in the bright sunlight, "which doesn't really seem fair to anyone but you, Cap, but we're gonna make do." He laughed easily and so did the other men standing within earshot. Steve couldn't help but smile, too.

"All right. Here's the drill," Rumlow continued. "Ever since New York happened, the whole world knows you're here, Cap... and everyone who's on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s bad side is crapping their pants right about now, wondering when we're going to unleash you. You got a target painted on your back, so whatever weaknesses you might have, eventually S.H.I.E.L.D.'s enemies are gonna work out what they are. Better for you if _we_ find them out first, and maybe you can figure out a way around them before you get into trouble on the field."

Steve nodded. "Sounds good." The Army had never done something like this for him, not in any systematic way. Experience had been his teacher during the war, but already he had learned so much from Clint and Nat about modern fighting techniques that now Steve felt a pulse of eagerness to test it out. He was ready for something new. He was ready for a challenge.

"So we're gonna take away your shield, see how you do without it," Rumlow said. "We're gonna swarm you with numbers. We're gonna use modern weapons against you. Throw some things at you that maybe you ain't expecting. How's that?"

"When do we start?" Steve asked.

Rumlow threw a fist into his face.

Steve had only a split-second to react, and managed to turn his head just in time to turn it into a glancing blow off his cheekbone. Before he could even recover from the shocking suddenness of the attack, someone else grabbed him from behind, wrapping a beefy arm around his throat. Instinctively he planted his feet and jerked his weight forward, slinging the man over his shoulder and onto the ground. Already there were other men getting into his space, with Rumlow throwing a fist into his gut just as someone else behind him kicked the back of his knee, and he staggered for a moment before managing to shove Rumlow back out of his space and spinning to kick back at the assailant behind him.

The next few minutes were a whirlwind of blows, but not more than Steve could handle; so far, they weren't trying anything against him that Schmidt's Hydra goons hadn't already, although he was getting definite hints that at least a few of the men on STRIKE team were real powerhouses and not just cannon fodder, Rumlow himself chief among them.

The STRIKE leader's appearance was deceptive, Steve realized as he blocked a blow and then shifted his weight in an unexpected direction, sending one of the attackers crashing awkwardly into a fellow team member and taking them both out of the fight for the moment. Rumlow wasn't all that big of a guy — particularly in comparison to some of the other STRIKE guys, who looked like they'd been chosen for the sheer visual intimidation factor — but he was making good use of what he had. He was strong for his size, and he was clearly a thinking fighter: A couple of times he called out a single word, and the other men responded instantly with a new strategy that took some adjusting to handle.

After a few minutes of this, Rumlow shouted out, "Halt! Halt!" The men instantly stopped fighting and backed up a couple of steps, and Steve slowly put down his fists.

"So," Rumlow said conversationally as he pulled up his T-shirt to mop the sweat off his forehead. "How was that for starters?"

Steve raised his eyebrows. "Fun," he admitted.

Rumlow laughed. "You hear that, boys? He says it was _fun_," he called, glancing around at his team, who were all breathing hard from the tussle. Quite a few of them grinned in response. "Looks like they had fun, too," Rumlow said with amusement as he turned back toward Steve.

Then he craned his neck to the side and looked at Steve's cheek. "Look at that," he said in mild disappointment. "I didn't even leave a mark." He glanced around. "Hey guys! I think we can kick it up a notch." He met Steve's eyes. "You can take it, right?"

"I can take it," Steve confirmed. "Just... be careful about how hard you hit. I don't want anyone breaking their hand on my face."

Rumlow laughed easily. "We'll worry about our hands, Cap," he said. "You worry about your face."

* * *

If Steve had been hoping for a change of pace, Rumlow and the STRIKE team gave it to him in spades over the next few weeks. After the danger and crisis of the Battle of New York, his S.H.I.E.L.D. training had almost felt like a vacation; Clint and Nat had come to him as teachers, although by the end of Steve's time with them, it had become more of a mutual give-and-take, with them often asking advice from him on how to pull off certain maneuvers.

But it was different with STRIKE team. Rumlow was there to test him. And it quickly became apparent that Rumlow was not the type to do anything halfway. He frequently urged his men to come at Steve with their full strength, despite the fact that some of them were getting injured doing it.

"Come on, Cap. How else are we supposed to find your limits if we don't give you real-world conditions?" Rumlow asked with a shrug when Steve expressed concern. "These guys knew what they signed up for."

He wasn't wrong, Steve knew, but he didn't exactly like it, either. There were days when he was tempted to tell Fury to call an end to the testing and just put him out into the field, where he could be pitted against real assailants, but Fury frequently watched these testing sessions and knew what was happening. He never said much afterward, but if he disapproved of Rumlow's methods he surely would have said something.

One of the biggest challenges Steve faced was finding the correct level of force to use, knowing this was only practice and not wanting to injure the other guys. Rumlow was constantly encouraging Steve to stop pulling his punches, but there was no question of doing that. Instead, he provided full-strength demonstrations on punching bags and sparring dummies, which Rumlow was forced to grudgingly accept.

And STRIKE team played as hard as they worked, Steve quickly learned. There were frequent "decompression exercises," as Rumlow called them with a twinkle in his eye, usually coming in the form of meeting at a nearby sports bar after a long day of hard work. Sometimes Steve joined them, partly because he knew it was good for morale and partly because he enjoyed watching games with company for a change. Natasha and Clint didn't really follow baseball; Clint liked to play it but not watch it, while Nat was bored to tears either way. Rumlow, on the other hand, was a rabid White Sox fan and knew the game like the back of his hand.

But no matter how many times they stayed late to cheer on their respective teams to the very last inning, Rumlow would show up to work the next morning spoiling for a fight as eagerly as Steve was, growing ever more inventive in his quest to find challenges Steve had never yet faced.

"Ever been tased, Cap?" Rumlow asked in a conversational way one day.

Steve shook his head. Nat had once spent a day showing him how to wield a taser rod, although he hadn't felt inspired to work it into his own repertoire. But she had never suggested testing it on him.

"Been wondering if you might be resistant to it," Rumlow said. "Care to find out?"

"I guess I better." Nat had explained that the tech was easily available, and it wasn't unreasonable to think it might be used against him someday.

"It's painful," Rumlow warned.

Steve shrugged.

"Better take a leak first. Some people lose control." A few of the guys laughed, although Rumlow was only being matter-of-fact.

"I'm good."

"Okay," Rumlow said, pulling out his rod and activating it with a crackle of electricity. The other men backed up, giving the two of them space. "Just a little zap, Cap. Three-second interval. Ready?"

Steve braced himself and nodded.

Rumlow stretched out his hand and pressed the taser rod against Steve's bicep.

The pain was instantaneous and extreme. It seemed to last far longer than three seconds, and he grunted involuntarily as the hot lightning coursed through his body, seizing up his muscles. And then abruptly it stopped and he found himself down on one knee, sweaty palms pressed against the mat, panting for breath.

"Huh," Rumlow said, looking at the rod and then Steve with interest. "Guess you ain't immune. Well, good to know."

Steve steadied his breathing deliberately and got back on his feet.

"Again," he said.

Rumlow raised his eyebrows. "Again?"

"Yeah."

"What for?"

"So I can work out how to counter it."

Rumlow blinked at him in bemusement. "You can't."

Rumlow didn't know, couldn't know, the depths of distaste Steve had for that particular phrase, and so he swallowed what he wanted to say and instead replied mildly, "Can't know 'til I try."

Rumlow shrugged one shoulder, and then in a whip-fast motion he pressed the taser rod against Steve's chest.

Again, the hot, blinding pain. Again, his whole body seized up, and it was only when the three-second cycle ended that his muscles would obey him once more. The other STRIKE guys were suddenly quiet, watching as Steve got back to his feet, forcing himself to rise quickly and smoothly even though every nerve in his body was jangling.

"The thing is," Rumlow said, glancing down to check the power level of his rod before meeting Steve's eyes once more, "it isn't just the pain that immobilizes you. The electricity interferes with the signals your nerves are sending to your brain. There's nothing to counter, Cap, nothing to overcome. If someone zaps you, there's nothin' you can do but pray they stop. Better learn how to avoid getting hit by one in the first place."

Steve heard what Rumlow was saying and understood it, but at the same time, he was seeing through a window of possibility. His body could sometimes do more than what he thought was possible. His survival after decades buried under a pile of Arctic ice was proof of that. How did he know he couldn't overcome this?

"Hit me again," he said.

"I don't wanna hurt you," Rumlow said.

"You won't. I can do this."

Rumlow thought for a long moment and finally raised his eyebrows. "Well, you're the boss."

He delivered several more shocks in quick succession. Steve didn't worry about how he looked in front of everybody while he was taking them; he was too busy concentrating on the way the electricity _felt_ shooting through every nerve like liquid lightning. Instead, he just kept getting up every time he fell, eager to once again focus on testing a single muscle, seeing if he could move it despite the overwhelming power washing through his body.

He was just starting to think that maybe Rumlow was right after all, and that this was an exercise in futility, when he exerted a terrible effort and actually managed to make his fists unclench even while the electricity was coursing through him. Filled with elation, he jumped back onto his feet and nodded to Rumlow to go again. This time, he tried swinging an arm toward the taser rod the moment the jolting started.

It _worked_. His arm obeyed his brain and swept out, making contact with Rumlow's hand where he was gripping the rod. But the pain made him clumsy, and as he pushed the still-thrumming rod away from him, it brushed up against Rumlow's chest instead.

Rumlow barely made a sound, just went down hard on one knee with a strangled grunt.

And then the instant the electricity switched off, incredibly, he got back up. No hesitation, no staggering, no grimacing. He just straightened his shoulders and looked at Steve with a strange expression on his face: not pain, but distance. As if he were a thousand miles away. As if it were someone else entirely who had just been electrocuted. The other men were deathly silent, watching.

"I didn't mean to-" Steve started a little anxiously.

But Rumlow just sighed deeply, his eyes closing momentarily as a faint smile touched his lips.

"Now that's what I call invigorating," he said, opening his eyes and smiling crookedly at Steve.

"You okay?" Steve asked after a moment's hesitation.

Rumlow nodded, although his face was still beaded with sweat. "Fine. You?"

"Yeah."

He smiled in genuine pleasure and slapped Steve's shoulder. "Nice work, Cap. Real nice work. You took a lot of hits and kept right on coming."

"Anyone could do _that_ if they had serum running through their veins," he heard Jack Rollins mutter under his breath, and Steve could see a couple of the men around him murmuring in agreement.

"Of course, you can't always count on spasming in just the right way like that," Rumlow added with a roguish grin, and Steve realized in a flash that the STRIKE leader hadn't understood that his motion had been voluntary, if not precisely executed. But there was no question of pointing that out to Rumlow and the others now; it would sound too much like bragging. Steve had learned what he needed to know about himself, and that was all that mattered.

"Okay, everybody!" Rumlow shouted authoritatively, clapping loudly to get their attention. "Take a break. Back here in 30." Without hesitation the STRIKE team flooded out the door and toward the cafeteria; they'd been working for hours and were more than ready for a break.

Rumlow stayed put, though, and he and Steve watched the last couple of guys file out of the room until the two of them were left alone.

"Rollin's an idiot," Rumlow said then in a conversational tone.

"Not really," Steve said quickly, but Rumlow shook his head and walked over to the bench, gesturing for Steve to join him as he sat down heavily. "A lot of my guys, they don't understand what the serum does — and _doesn't_ — do for you," Rumlow continued. "I took some time to study the old SSR files. Wanted to give you the best tests I could."

Steve raised his eyebrows. "Well, it's working. You've been pushing me."

Rumlow smiled crookedly. "Good." Then he took a deep breath. "You know," he continued, his eyes growing distant, "some guys think pain tolerance is a physical feat. They think some guys can take more because they're bigger or stronger. But they're wrong. It's all up here." He tapped his forehead significantly. "Believe me, I know. My old man, he had a heavy hand. Used to hate it. Hated _him_. But you know what? He did me a favor."

"Do you mean-?" Steve started, a little stunned at Rumlow's matter-of-fact tone. His eyes flicked down to the scarring under Rumlow's left eye. He'd always assumed that was from an injury inflicted during a mission, but suddenly he realized it might have been from something else inflicted at a much earlier age, and a cold chill went down his spine.

"Grew up in Chicago," Rumlow went on as if he hadn't said anything. "The rough side. Spent a lot of time out on the streets. Not exactly the safest place for a little guy with a big mouth. Like me." His smile twisted sideways. "But thanks to my old man, I already knew the secret: No matter how many times they knock you down, as long as you're still conscious you can keep getting up. Doesn't matter how bad it hurts, doesn't matter if you're bleeding everywhere, doesn't matter if your body is screaming for you to quit. You just keep getting up and coming back for more. Pretty soon even the big guys realize you ain't worth the trouble." He looked over at Steve. "But you already know that. Don't you? The serum, it doesn't stop you from feeling pain."

"No," Steve said quietly. "It doesn't."

"So where did you learn it? The war? Or was it before that, in Brooklyn?"

Steve was quiet for a long moment. "Brooklyn could be pretty rough," he said at last, and then admitted: "Especially for a little guy who... didn't exactly fit in."

"It's a miracle you weren't killed, as little as you were," Rumlow said.

"It wasn't as bad as you're picturing," Steve said quickly, anxious not to sound sorry for himself. "A lot of the time, my pal, my buddy-" He paused, realizing with some embarrassment that he was slipping back into his old vernacular. "My... Bucky."

"Bucky?" Rumlow repeated, looking confused.

"His name was James, but nobody called him that," Steve explained. "James was his dad. So we called him Bucky. Anyway, my mother said he had the second sight."

He hadn't talked about Bucky in a long time; no one here had ever thought to ask about him, not even Nat, and yet for Steve he had been gone not quite a year. Just by speaking his name, he was surprised to feel a kind of loosening in his chest, like a knot inside him was being undone. It was a little nerve-racking and a bit of a relief, all at the same time, and suddenly he found himself aching to say more. When it came to Bucky, there was so much to say.

"Second sight? What's that?" Rumlow asked, puzzled.

"An old Irish superstition. A... sixth sense. Anyway, Bucky always seemed to know when I was in trouble. It was kinda uncanny. He'd show up just at the right moment and sail in with both fists." Steve paused, permitting the familiar sensations of gratitude, guilt and regret wash over him. "He saved me from a lot of beatings."

Rumlow was looking at him with a strange expression on his face. Almost a kind of hunger in his eyes.

"You were lucky," Rumlow said at last. "To have a friend like that." His left eye twitched, further distorting his scarred cheek. "I didn't have anybody. But that was good for me." His voice went harsher. "It made me stronger. The pain, it can't kill you. It brings _order_. Romanoff knows that, too. It's why she's so good. Why she's better than Barton, and always will be."

"Is she?" Steve asked, surprised. He'd seen Nat and Clint spar enough times, but they were always so playful about it that he had never noticed an obvious mismatch between them. He had no idea what would happen if they ever fought for real. Not that they ever would.

"Oh, yeah," Rumlow said with certainty. "No agent homegrown inside S.H.I.E.L.D. could ever match someone trained by the KGB, or out on the streets like you and me. Barton learned from one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best trainers, yeah, but all the methods they use here are... well, they're humane, let's put it that way. But Romanoff, now... _she_ knows pain. Like us. She has an edge to her that Barton could never have. The man grew up running around the corn fields of Iowa like Maria Von Trapp running around the Swiss alps, for God's sake. He wouldn't know an edge if it hit him in the face."

"But Romanoff-"

"Holds back when she spars. Like you." Rumlow looked at him for a long moment. "So. Tell me about your pal. Your Bucky. Why'd he protect you so fierce?"

"I don't know," Steve admitted. "I was never really sure what he got out of it. I mean, he was the guy who had everything, you know? Nice family, good looking, charming." He smiled slightly. The old ladies at church had liked Bucky as much as the pretty girls in the dance halls did, which had always been endless fodder for teasing. Then his smile faded a little. "But I don't know what he got out of hanging around me. He didn't need me. I guess he... just liked me. I was never sure why."

He frowned a little, remembering how much trouble he had had trying to make friends in those days, with Bucky as the notable exception. It was funny how fast that had stopped being a problem after his experiment. But Bucky had never needed a reason to offer him friendship. It had been given freely.

"Hey, Cap. You don't have to ask me why I like you," Rumlow said easily. "I like you 'cuz you can beat the snot outta me."

Steve grinned at him. "Oh, is that how it is?"

"Not a lotta guys can do that," Rumlow said, shaking his head. "Respect, Cap. Respect."

Just then, the door opened and Nat came strolling in, winking slightly at Steve before looking at Rumlow seriously.

"Sorry to interrupt the fun," she said coolly, "but I need to borrow Rogers from you for a minute. Got something he needs to test out."

* * *

The "something" turned out to be his new uniform, designed by Julie in Fabrication and Quinn in R&D, with Steve's guidance and no shortage of input from Nat and Clint... some of which had been helpful ("Make sure they put in lots of pockets and pouches for gear," Clint had insisted) and some of which had been less so ("It needs to be tighter," Nat had said repeatedly, each time shooting a teasing look at Steve that made it clear she just wanted to see him sigh in exasperation — which of course, he did).

He liked all the features this uniform had. He liked the way it felt. And he liked the way it looked: navy blue, with a white star on the chest and only a subtle hint of dark red striping on the sides — much more modern and subdued than his stage costume, or Howard Stark's design, or Phil Coulson's iteration that he'd worn during the Battle of New York. But Steve couldn't help but a feel a tiny pang of regret as he looked it over. If he'd worn something like this from the beginning, his old Howling Commando buddy James Montgomery Falsworth would never have taken to calling him "that damn Yankee" with his tongue firmly in his cheek. Tony Stark would never have made a single snarky comment about spangles. And Bucky never would have asked him with that teasing gleam in his eye if he intended to "keep the outfit."

Everyone would have taken him seriously. Which was exactly what he had wanted — craved — his whole life.

Then why couldn't he shake an uneasy feeling that something important had been lost?

"It looks fantastic," Nat said with such warm approval that Steve ignored the feeling with an effort. "It's perfect." She held up her phone and took a picture of him. "Okay, now turn around."

Steve didn't budge, just gave her a long-suffering look.

"Oh, come on!" Nat tilted her head and gave him a pleading, pouty look that somehow managed to tug at his heartstrings even though he knew she was only doing it to manipulate him. "I need to send a picture to the others, and they'll want to see the whole thing."

Steve frowned. "What others?"

"The other Avengers."

He frowned even deeper. "Don't do that."

"Why not?" Nat asked.

"Why would they care?"

"Why _wouldn't_ they?"

Steve sighed, and didn't bother answering. "I'm gonna go test it out with the STRIKE guys," he said. But before he left, he paused and pointed a finger at Nat. "Promise me you won't send that picture to all the Avengers."

Nat sighed. "Fine. I promise."

* * *

It was nearly dinnertime by the time Rumlow and the STRIKE team had run through all the exercises they had planned for the day, but Steve declined an invitation to go to the sports bar with them afterward, in the mood for a quiet evening at home instead. He headed to the parking garage and was just about to get on his bike when he heard "Hey, Steve!" behind him.

He turned to see Clint Barton strolling toward him, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, obviously headed home for the day. Their reserved spots were right next to each other, which was good; Steve trusted Clint not to ding his bike with his car door, not only because Clint was nice that way, but also because Clint had a fondness bordering on open affection for his old Ford Taurus, even though Nat was always wrinkling her nose and saying it wasn't anything special. _Her_ Corvette Stingray was parked on the other side of Clint's car, its black paint polished to a high shine as usual.

"Hey," Steve said, glad to see him. He didn't seem to run into Clint as often as he did Nat, now that he had been reassigned.

Clint perched his sunglasses on top of his head. "Rumlow and the guys give you a good workout today?"

"Things got a little intense," Steve said. "But it's good for- Hang on."

Steve's pocket had just started playing music: a comically sped-up musical cue from "The Star-Spangled Man with a Plan." Nat — at least, he assumed it was Nat — had changed his ringtone when he wasn't looking one day, and he hadn't taken the time yet to figure out how to change it back. Grimacing slightly, Steve pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at the incoming text.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: Breaking news: Gennifer in Purchasing just told me she thinks you're hot.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: Inquiring minds want to know if you think she's hot.

Steve groaned before he could stop himself, and he scrunched up his face as he tried to work out just how he was supposed to answer that.

Clint looked at him in a questioning kind of way. "What?"

Steve sighed and handed over his phone to show Clint, who looked and then laughed shortly as he handed it back.

"Well? Do you?" Clint asked.

Steve shrugged. "I dunno. I guess so."

Clint scrutinized him. "That seems... less than enthusiastic."

"No, she's fine, it's just..." Steve began, and then trailed off.

"Okay, Steve, seriously," Clint said, grabbing both of his shoulders and looking into his eyes for emphasis. "You need to either take Nat up on one of these women she keeps throwing at you, or else tell her to knock it off already. Otherwise she's never gonna let it go. She's made up her mind to get you fixed up and trust me, there's no stopping women when they get into that mode."

"The thing is..." Steve hesitated. "I kinda _have_ been dating. On my own."

Clint looked taken aback. "Have you?"

"Yeah. A little."

Clint frowned. "Well, why on earth don't you tell her that? Maybe she'd actually get off your back."

Steve shrugged a little. "I dunno. I guess... if I tell Nat I've gone on dates, she's gonna want to know how they went."

"Why, did they go badly?" Clint teased.

"No," Steve said seriously. "Well... not that I know of. I guess you'd have to ask my dates."

Clint turned and leaned back against his car with arms folded, exuding an air of expectation. Steve leaned against the car too, and together they watched a car turn the corner and exit the garage.

"So did these girls get kissed, or what?" Clint asked conversationally.

"Yeah."

"I assume you didn't get slapped."

"No."

"Can't really picture anyone slapping Captain America."

Against his will, Steve smiled a little.

Clint grinned back. "So did you like any of them?"

"I don't know." Steve looked down. "Yes. And no."

Clint raised an eyebrow and waited expectantly.

"I liked kissing them," Steve admitted.

"Shocking," Clint said, deadpan.

"But they didn't... _get_ me," Steve continued.

"Didn't _get_ you?" Clint repeated.

"Or I didn't get them."

Clint frowned. "How so?"

"Look, I know I'm kinda... almost a foreigner here," Steve said slowly, "but I've been trying real hard to catch up, and I thought by now I'd be able to find enough things to talk about on a date. Modern things, I mean."

"But?" Clint said expectantly.

"But mostly," Steve said reluctantly, "they wanted to talk about how mean their boss was because the cubicle they got wasn't as nice as what their co-worker got, or how all their friends had the new iPhone but they couldn't afford one yet and how embarrassing it was, or how mad they got because somebody on Twitter said something they didn't like about some political thing."

Clint pinched the bridge of his nose and assumed a weary expression. "Oh, man."

"I don't mean to put them down," Steve said quickly. "They were all real nice girls, I think they were good people, I just..." He paused, trying to think how to explain. "Look, I got fired from one of the last jobs I had before the Army, down at the old cannery in Brooklyn, because I had to go home early one day when I had a bad asthma attack and my boss didn't like it. I had to pay my rent late that month and my landlord gave me grief even though he still hadn't fixed the electrical short in my kitchen. And I was going without sugar because I'd used up my rationing stamps too fast. So when they're talking about how far their cubicle is from the window, I just... don't know what to say to them."

"I know what _I'd_ say to that," Clint said, rolling his eyes.

Steve scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. "It felt like I was dating girls who were too young for me. Except they _weren't_. And yeah, technically I'm an old man, which is hilarious, but it was really only a few years ago for me that-" Steve stopped himself, realizing he was dangerously close to complaining. He took a deep breath and pulled himself back with an effort.

"Anyway, even before I joined the Army, the kinds of things I thought about... I was worried about governments collapsing, and bombs falling on civilians. I was worried about not getting into the Army, and what might happen if I _did_ get into it." He sighed ruefully. "Trust me, nobody wants to talk about things like that on a date."

Clint shook his head vigorously. "Okay, Steve, here's the thing you need to understand," he said. "The pool of women you're choosing from? They're all single women in their 20s living in Washington, D.C. There's a certain type of woman who does that, okay? They probably all worked in government or for a grassroots organization or a campaign or something, am I right?"

"Yeah," Steve admitted.

"Yeah. These are career girls, they're ambitious, they live for the job. So their boss picking on them, their iPhones, their Twitter, that's their whole world. Anything that threatens them socially threatens them _existentially_. And you're right, they're not necessarily bad people because of that, but you have to understand, that kind of woman, they're not looking for a husband and kids and a white picket fence, at least not at this stage of their lives. I mean, I assume... that is what _you're_ looking for, isn't it? The domestic life?"

"I... yeah."

"Okay, so forget about dating women who live around here. Next weekend, get on your motorcycle, take a ride out to the country, go into a diner or a ranch store or something like that, and pick up women there."

"_Country_ girls?" Steve said skeptically. "I'm a city boy. Always have been."

Clint shook his head. "It doesn't matter, Steve. The point is, if you get a girl who knows how to drive a tractor or pick rock out of a field or bottle tomatoes, you get a girl who's actually made contact with reality at some point in her life."

Steve looked down, suddenly filled with confusion. What Clint was saying made a certain kind of sense. But then again, why should a career woman be incompatible with him? Wasn't that what Peggy had been? He had never minded her unusual choice of occupation; in fact, he had admired her passion and determination to succeed in the face of so many obstacles. What set her apart from the women he'd been dating recently?

Maybe it was because Peggy had joined the war effort not because of any personal ambition, but because after her brother was killed in action she felt called to contribute all her heart and soul to the same cause. And she had said a few things during their time together that had made it clear to Steve that she _did_ have family on her mind... at least once the war had ended.

And in the next instant Steve realized — Peggy had spent her childhood in the English countryside, only coming to London as a young woman. Did that make her a country girl, or a city girl? A domestic woman, or a career woman? Or some unique blend of all those things?

And why, he wondered with mounting frustration, despite forcing himself to accept on a daily basis the fact that Peggy was lost to him, was he _still_ holding her up as the measuring stick for every other woman he met?

"It probably doesn't even really matter what kind of woman I find," Steve said slowly. "I'm not exactly in a position to start a family."

Clint creased his brow, suddenly looking confused. "Why not?"

"This job," Steve said, surprised by his surprise. "Any day now Fury will start giving me missions. And then I'll get called up at any time, day or night, and be gone for weeks at a time. Maybe never come back one day. It's not exactly the ideal arrangement for a family."

Clint was silent for a moment, and then said with a shrug, "Could be."

Now it was Steve's turn to crease his brow. "How?"

Clint turned and dropped a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Let me let you in on a little secret, Steve. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D.? It's not like enlisting in the Army, where once you're in, you're pretty much stuck dancing to someone else's tune. Here, you have the power to walk away. Which means that if you work your tail off, if you make yourself invaluable to them..." He quirked an eyebrow at Steve. "Fury and Hill will bend over backwards to keep you happy. If you tell them you need this or that or the other thing to make it easier to live the kind of lifestyle you want to live, they'll make it happen for you. They don't want you jumping ship and going to the CIA, or the FBI, or back to the military. Agents at our level of training, people they can completely trust? They're not easy to find. It's not like they have another Clint Barton or Steve Rogers just waiting in the wings to take our places if we get too demanding. You catch what I mean?"

Steve thought about that for a long moment.

"Even if that were true," he said at last, "it seems like it would be awfully hard on the wife."

Clint shrugged again. "Depends on the woman. Some of them, they might look soft on the outside, but they have a backbone of steel. You just have to find one of those. They _do_ exist."

"I know," Steve said softly.

"You want me to tell Nat to cool it with throwing women at your head?" Clint offered. "She'll do it if I ask her."

Steve considered that for a moment. "Not really," he said at last. "It's kinda nice that she cares."

* * *

His apartment wasn't far from S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, but when Steve got home and pulled his phone back out to charge it, he saw that he had already missed a couple of text messages from an unknown number.

212-555-3335: This one is about 10 times better than the last one.

212-555-3335: And by 10 times better, I mean 100 times better.

Steve frowned in confusion, and typed in a response.

STEVE ROGERS: Who is this?

212-555-3335: Tony Stark. I got your number from Bruce.

Steve noticed then that it was actually a group message, and that Bruce and Clint were in on it, too. Quickly, he added Tony as a new contact and then replied.

STEVE ROGERS: Oh. Hi, Tony.

BRUCE BANNER: i like it too its very nice

STEVE ROGERS: Like what? Did I miss something?

TONY STARK: The uniform.

A photo popped up in Tony's message window. It was the photo Nat had taken of his new uniform earlier that day. Steve felt his jaw drop open, but the next thing Tony posted was even worse: a photo of the _back_ of the uniform. He realized in an instant that Nat must have taken another photo after he'd turned around to walk away from her.

Scowling, Steve tapped a few buttons and got into his message stream with Nat.

STEVE ROGERS: Stark and Banner just told me they like the new uniform.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: See, Steve, I told you so.

STEVE ROGERS: You know what, Romanoff?

NATASHA ROMANOFF: Don't be mad.

STEVE ROGERS: You promised me you wouldn't do that!

NATASHA ROMANOFF: I said I wouldn't send it to ALL the Avengers.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: I didn't send it to Thor.

STEVE ROGERS: You've got to be kidding me.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: No, really. I don't know his phone number.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: Do you?

STEVE ROGERS: I'm not talking to you right now.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: You just did.

STEVE ROGERS: Go away.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: You're cute when you're mad. Hey, you never answered me about Gennifer. So what do you think?

Steve sighed in exasperation, and saw a new message pop up from Tony. He tapped back into it.

TONY STARK: And when I say it's 100 times better, I mean it's 1,000 times better.

Steve hadn't like the previous uniform all that much, either, but for some reason he couldn't stop himself from typing back:

STEVE ROGERS: What was so wrong with the last one?

TONY STARK: Let's just say it didn't play up your best asset.

STEVE ROGERS: Huh?

TONY STARK: I'll explain when you're older.

STEVE ROGERS: Bruce, please translate.

BRUCE BANNER: oh I'm going to stay far far away from this one

BRUCE BANNER: im going back to my lab

BRUCE BANNER: lets just pretend this whole convo never hapened

CLINT BARTON: Knock it off, you guys. Siri is reading these texts to me while I'm driving, and you guys are about to make me wreck.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** There you go, an extra-long chapter! But I didn't see a good place to cut it in half. Let me know what you think, particularly about this take on Brock Rumlow. The movies don't give a lot of insight on what kind of person ends up in Hydra, how they are indoctrinated, recruited or trained, etc., so I started with the assumption that, as with some real-life cults, some adherents would be conditioned by their own families from a young age. I pictured Rumlow as being raised in an abusive way for a particular purpose: to prepare him for the kind of fanaticism and violence that Hydra requires from their top agents. I figured his sadism would lead him to admire, in some twisted way, Steve's gift of being able to get up and come back swinging no matter what gets dished out to him... even though they stand in opposition when it comes to moral questions._

_And/or let me know what you thought of Steve's interactions with the various Avengers in this chapter. Those are a bit more fun to write than Rumlow's sadism. :-D _


	24. Chapter 24

_**Author's note:** To those who are reading both Marvel stories I am currently posting, you may want to read today's new chapter on "The Third Life of Steve Rogers" **before** you read this one, as a plot development regarding one of my OCs will make more sense if you know what happened back in 1991 before you find out what's happening here in 2012!_

_And as always, thanks to reviewers Nimrodel 101, Guest, LoverGurrl411, and all my other loyal readers! _

* * *

**Chapter 24**

All his life Steve had enjoyed better birthday celebrations than many people got, even in the lean years when his mother had not been able to do anything beyond making the evening meal a little more special: there was always a parade, complete with marching bands and waving flags, and in the evening there were fireworks to light up the darkness. His mother had often joked that no matter what the midwife said about the baby coming "too soon," she had purposely chosen the Fourth of July to give birth as a way to show pride in her new homeland. And to further drive the point home, she'd given him the middle name of Grant, in honor of one of America's presidents.

But this year's celebration topped them all. The Fourth of July came only two months after the Battle of New York, and the Avengers were still the daily topic of discussion across the country... which meant an invitation had been extended to Steve Rogers and Tony Stark to be the grand marshals for the parade down Constitution Avenue in the nation's capitol. Director Fury had strongly encouraged Steve to take advantage of the good publicity being offered, and so it was that he found himself donning the new Captain America uniform in public for the first time and performing motorcycle stunts for the crowds lining the streets, while Iron Man flew overhead doing aerial maneuvers to the delight of everyone.

That wasn't the end of the festivities, either. He and Stark were then taken to the White House to meet President Matthew Ellis and a number of other dignitaries, where they were awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom and trotted out for the press before being served a meal in the East Room.

In many ways it was the welcome home Steve had missed out on, being asleep in the Arctic when everyone had taken to the streets to celebrate Germany's surrender as well as the subsequent victorious homecoming for the Allied soldiers, and he was grateful for the belated respect everyone showed him now. Even the president was gracious and deferential. He was only sorry that he and Stark were the only guests of honor when all six of the Avengers should have been there. Bruce Banner had not been invited, and it was easy to guess why. Thor was of course unreachable, while Fury had declined to let Romanoff and Barton appear, given that their jobs still depended on some measure of anonymity and discretion. The spotlight hadn't zeroed in on those two, anyway; fair or not, the more fantastical powers of the other four had drawn the lion's share of the public's attention.

Still, despite his deep gratitude for receiving all these honors, Steve was relieved when the last round of handshakes was over and he was whisked away from the VIPS and taken outside, where Agent Hill was waiting by an unmarked SUV to take him back to his apartment. It had been mentally exhausting to be in the intense glare of so much attention, and he was glad it was over. Stark, on the other hand, hadn't seemed to mind a bit; in fact, far from being nervous, he had seemed far too _casual_ as he flitted from one official to the next at each event, talking a mile a minute, doing little to show dignity or tact even when talking to the president himself. He'd also visibly snubbed Senator Stern and called the Speaker of the House "Boss Tweed" to his face without a trace of embarrassment. Steve had been embarrassed enough _for_ him, and he wondered what was going on; Stark had certainly been talkative and irreverent during their first adventure together, but he seemed different this time; his energy almost manic, his smiles and quips not fully convincing, with more acid than fun behind his eyes.

"Hey, Cap!"

Steve paused just as he was about to climb into the SUV, and turned around. Tony Stark was jogging down the steps from the Rose Garden, turning slightly to impatiently shoo away a small entourage that was attempting to follow him.

"Mr. Stark," Steve said politely as he approached.

"Okay, you gotta knock that off," Stark said. "Stop me if I'm wrong here, but I think saving the world together is one of those things that qualifies you to call someone by their first name. I'm pretty sure Emily Post said that. Or maybe it was Martha Stewart."

"You're probably right," Steve admitted.

Stark — or rather, Tony — scrutinized him for a moment. "Well, I've had just about enough fun for one day, how about you?" he said.

"Yeah," Steve agreed.

Tony inclined his head. "Come on, let's go get a drink. Or a cheeseburger. Maybe both." He took in a quick breath and let it out. "Definitely both." In the bright sunlight, now that he was up close, Steve could see that Tony had dark circles under his eyes that had been camouflaged with concealer, done so artfully that he wouldn't have spotted it if not for his enhanced vision.

Steve smiled a little. "Thank you. But Clint and Nat are waiting for me; I think they have some birthday celebration planned for me with some other people from S.H.I.E.L.D."

Tony looked momentarily taken aback. "Is it really your birthday? I thought that was just part of the Captain America propaganda package. What are you now, 91?"

"Twenty-eight," Steve corrected. "Listen, you're welcome to come. We can all catch up with each other. I'd like that." He hadn't had a moment today to talk to Tony one-on-one, as they'd been continually mobbed by people as they were whisked from one event to the next.

He thought Tony would probably refuse; whatever Clint and Nat had planned wasn't likely to be much like the high-society parties Tony must be used to, but to his surprise Tony said, "Where at?"

"My place. About 15 minutes from here."

Tony shoved on a pair of sunglasses. "Let's take my limo. I don't want to ride in some poky S.H.I.E.L.D. paddy wagon."

Steve went over to explain to Agent Hill, and then he and Tony strode over to the dark limousine parked some distance away. It was close to the rope that cordoned off this secured area, and a cluster of photographers hanging around saw the two of them coming and instantly sprang into action, cameras whirring and snapping away. A stocky curly-haired man standing by the limo opened the back door. "Happy Hogan, my head of security," Tony quickly explained as he gestured for Steve to get in first.

The back seat wasn't empty. Halfway in the act of sitting down, Steve realized there was a woman sitting across from him, dressed in an elegant silk blouse and skirt and high heels. She had long auburn hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Steve looked at her in mild surprise.

"Hi," he said.

She smiled widely, and he saw that she had very even white teeth. "Hello, Steve Rogers."

Shoulders falling a little, Steve couldn't help but feel a little disappointed, and yet he really shouldn't have been surprised. Tony was like Howard in so many other ways, of course this would be the same, too. Of course Tony would have the "flavor of the week" waiting for him in the limo. Steve clenched his teeth slightly even as he smiled at her politely, bracing himself for the awkwardness that was about to ensue during the ride to his apartment. He would have to watch them cuddle and coo at each other, knowing full well that in a matter of weeks or even days Tony would toss her a diamond bracelet or whatever peace offering he had devised to help him get rid of the women he tired of, and then she'd be shown the door by Tony's handlers, politely but oh-so-firmly.

The woman held out her hand toward him in a graceful gesture. "I'm Pepper Potts."

A second, more powerful wave of surprise hit Steve as he recognized the name, and instantly he was ashamed of himself for coming to a totally wrong conclusion.

"You're the CEO of Stark Industries," he said, taking her hand and shaking it. "I read about your press conference in the paper yesterday; they said your company's stock is going back up."

She nodded, smiling in pleasure at the recognition. "Yes, I think we've finally convinced the investors that Tony Stark can do more than just build weapons," she said. She had a pleasant speaking voice, low but clear. "What happened in New York this spring helped with that, as unfortunate as it all was. I guess there's a silver lining to every cloud."

Steve glanced at the open door of the limo and realized Tony wasn't getting in to join them. He had stopped on the sidewalk and was facing the crowd of journalists, swapping quips with one of them. The camera flashes going off in his face made it look like a lightning storm had just arrived. Steve looked back over at Miss Potts, suddenly uncertain.

"Should I go back out there, to help-?" he started, concerned, but she quickly shook her head. "Only if you want to," she said. "Tony has no trouble holding the spotlight all by himself, believe me." She laughed wryly. "By the way, did he behave well in there? For Tony, I mean."

"Uh..." Steve said, knowing in a flash that he couldn't lie, but not exactly wanting to be a tattle-tale, either.

Miss Potts briefly looked up, as if appealing to heaven for help, and lifted up a hand to forfend him. "Say no more."

"I don't know him well enough to know how he usually is, Miss Potts," he said quickly.

"Oh, don't call me Miss Potts," she urged him. "The only person who ever called me that was my high school principal. Pepper is fine."

Tony got into the backseat finally, and Mr. Hogan shut the door and then got into the passenger seat. Tony pressed the intercom button and said, "We're going to Roger's place." He glanced at Steve. "What's the address?"

Feeling a little awkward, unsure of how to talk to a servant, Steve leaned toward the intercom and gave his address.

"Get that, Harrison?" Tony asked, and through the tinted window separating them from the front seat, the driver turned and nodded briefly. "Yes, sir."

The limo started to move. Tony flipped open a panel and pulled out a crystal decanter and a couple of glasses. "Steve? Want a drink?"

"No, thank you."

Tony grimaced at him. "Tee-totaler, huh? Why does that not surprise me?"

"It's not that," Steve said. "It just doesn't do anything for me, not since the experiment. No point in wasting it on me."

Tony raised his eyebrows. "Boy, talk about an unfortunate malady. And here I was, thinking you were perfect. Pepper?"

She gave him a knowing look. "Where are we going?"

"Steve's place. Birthday party. Should be a real kick in the pants."

"Then no," Pepper said firmly. "I'm not having a drink and neither are you. You're going to a party, Tony. You don't drink on the way there, you drink when you get there. _In moderation_."

Tony set the decanter back down, although he seemed reluctant. "You know me, I'm always moderate."

Pepper snorted. "Don't make me laugh."

"You would want to drink too, if you had just been subjected to three hours in the company of someone as charmingly slimy as old 'Thunderbolt' Ross," Tony said.

Pepper made a disgusted face. "Was he after Bruce?"

"That greasy little Napoleon wannabe tried to get anything and everything he could get out of me about Bruce."

"Please don't tell me you called him that to his face."

"Nope." Tony loosened his tie and settled back in his seat. "I called him 'a tin-pot dictator with delusions of grandeur.'"

Pepper glared at him. "Well, that's fantastic. Another PR mess for me to clean up. Thank you, Tony. I really appreciate that."

"Ross had _you_ cornered for a really long time," Tony said to Steve, ignoring Pepper. "Was he trying to get you to stab Bruce in the back, too?"

"A little," Steve admitted. "But mostly he was trying to get me to quit S.H.I.E.L.D. and come back to the Army."

"Oh yeah? What'd he offer you?" Tony asked.

"Everything," Steve said. "Plus the kitchen sink."

"Tempted?"

Steve shook his head. "Knowing what Ross did to Bruce... no. Not really." He sighed deeply.

"You miss the Army?" Pepper asked curiously.

He took a moment to respond. "I miss the people I knew in the Army."

"Oh!" Pepper said, her face suddenly brightening. "Speaking of which... I read Peggy Carter's memoirs when I became CEO — it's practically required reading for any woman who finds herself in a job like mine, or aspires to be — and she spoke very highly of you."

Steve managed to not quite freeze at the mention of her name — he was getting better at that — and instantly went into an internal tug-of-war as to whether he should change the subject as quickly as possible, or let Pepper keep talking. He was hungry to hear about Peggy, but he was also afraid to. After an even longer pause, Steve finally managed to say in a mostly even voice: "I thought highly of her, too."

"Who on earth-" Tony muttered, looking down at his phone as he tapped at it, and speaking distractedly, "-is Peggy Carter?"

Pepper rolled her eyes. "Tony, you have to know who Peggy Carter is. You probably met her at some point. She worked with your dad on Project Rebirth, and she was director of S.H.I.E.L.D., too. Ten to one your dad had her over to the house at some point. Don't you remember meeting her?"

"Any part of Dad's job that didn't involve building things bored me to tears," Tony said frankly, still not looking up from his phone. "He always had people over. I couldn't be bothered with it."

Steve had to tamp down a rush of disappointment. He wasn't at a place yet where he felt he could call Peggy, although with the way his name got plastered all over the news after the Battle of New York, she certainly knew by now that he was back. He thought about it more and more often these days, and maybe someday soon he would be able to face that... but until he could talk to her himself, the next best thing would have been to talk to someone who had known her. He was sorry Tony didn't remember.

"Have you had a chance to catch up with her yet?" Pepper asked Steve.

Steve shook his head.

"I bet she would love to hear from you," Pepper said warmly. "She's retired now, isn't she? I think I read that she had gone back home to England."

Steve nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Something interesting about her memoirs-" Pepper started.

"She was British?" Tony asked abruptly, looking up from his phone at last.

Pepper looked annoyed at the interruption, but she answered readily, "The SSR took in personnel from all the Allied countries, Tony. She was trained by MI6, and she was the one who recruited Dr. Erskine and got him over the German border. The Army was lucky to get her to oversee operations for their project, although those idiots actually gave her a hard time. At first Colonel Phillips treated her like she was a secreta-"

"Yeah, but she was _British_?" Tony persisted. "With the accent and all?"

Pepper looked to Steve.

"Yeah," Steve said slowly, wondering why it mattered.

"The posh kind? Queen's English?"

"Yeah."

"So you did meet her!" Pepper said to Tony.

As abruptly as he had perked up, Tony shut down again, looking out the window and turning his whole body slightly away from them both, a frown pulling down the corner of his mouth.

"No. I never met her," he said shortly.

"As I was saying," Pepper said, turning back toward Steve, "it was actually Peggy Carter's daughter-in-law who co-wrote her memoirs, and they did something really interesting with the format. I've never seen memoirs published in a _three-ring binder_ before. I wonder why-"

Pepper suddenly broke off, and a wild look came into her eyes. Pressing her mouth into a tight line, she jabbed a button with one finger and the window next to her rolled down, letting in the noise of the D.C. traffic. Then she reached over, tore the decanter out of Tony's hands just as he was about to tip it into a glass, and hurled it out of the window, where it dashed into pieces against the pavement as the limo zipped down the road.

"Are you kidding me?!" she shouted at Tony.

"Are you _crazy_?!" he snapped back at the same time.

"How many times do I have to-" Pepper burst out.

"That was _Waterford crystal_-"

"-say that you _don't drink_ on the way to a party-"

"-it cost me almost a thousand for the set-"

"That's pocket change for you, Tony!"

"I _liked_ it!"

"It was hideous, it looked like it came from a thrift shop!"

"Well, what am I supposed to do with _this_ now?" Tony demanded, waving his empty glass meaningfully. "You broke up the set!"

"I don't care, stick a flower in it and call it a va-"

Tony chucked it out the open window.

"Oh, grow up!" Pepper said scathingly.

"You started it." He grabbed a second glass and threw it out too.

"Knock it off, you're _littering_-"

"It isn't littering if-"

"-and you're going to get us arrested, Tony!"

"-America's most heroic hero says it isn't!"

"Don't quote your own PR at me, there isn't enough room in this limo for that much hot air!" Pepper snapped.

"Whatever." Tony suddenly folded his arms and tipped his head back against the plush seat, eyes closing as if he were going to sleep.

Pepper sighed loudly, and then happened to catch Steve's eye.

"Oh, don't worry," she said reassuringly, seeing his expression. "We do this all the time."

* * *

When she stepped out of her apartment onto the landing, the first thing Sharon Carter saw was Steve Rogers coming up the stairs toward her, side by side with Natasha Romanoff. He didn't notice Sharon right away because he was intent on listening to whatever it was Romanoff was saying. He was still wearing his uniform from the parade earlier today, a new design with a S.H.I.E.L.D. patch on the shoulder. It was navy blue with a couple of white stripes going horizontally across the chest, along with the signature star in the center. His shield was strapped to his back.

Sharon liked the new uniform — it managed to convey the message that here was a man who meant business, while also setting him apart from the all-black that most S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives wore in the field — but she was surprised to feel a pulse of disappointment that he was wearing it. Their little game of pretending she didn't know who he was would be over now.

"-three if you count Eisenhower, but he wasn't president yet when I met him," Rogers was saying to Romanoff as they reached the landing, and then they both spotted Sharon.

"Kate," Rogers said, eyes lighting up as he spotted her. "Hi. I want you to meet my friend, Natasha. Nat, this is Kate, my neighbor."

"Hi there," Romanoff said, nodding to Sharon with no hint whatsoever of recognition. "Nice to meet you." She jerked her thumb at Rogers. "We're not actually friends, by the way," she added in a conspiratorial voice. "We just work together."

"Hey!" Rogers complained, looking wounded. Romanoff made a face at him.

"So, you work together?" Sharon said, putting a finger to her lips thoughtfully. "Wait, don't tell me where. Let me guess." Her eyes swept up and down his uniform, and she was delighted to see his face fall a little bit as she did so. So he didn't want to the game to end, either!

"_I_ know!" Sharon said, brightening. "You're a Captain America impersonator, right?"

_That_ got a smile out of him, the best one she'd gotten yet. Romanoff had a small smile on her face, too, looking back and forth between Sharon and Rogers with a curious expression. Behind them, a small group of men were coming up the stairs toward them.

"I just moonlight on the weekends," Rogers said. "What do you think? How am I doing?" He spread his arms a little to show off the uniform, managing to look both self-conscious and hopeful at the same time.

Sharon looked him over again. "It's pretty convincing," she admitted, just as the men reached the top of the stairs and joined them on the landing. She recognized Brock Rumlow among them, along with other members of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team, and quickly she made a mental note of their names and faces.

"I don't know," Rumlow said, breaking into the conversation and drawling out his words for emphasis. "If you ask me, he shouldn't quit his day job." He squeezed Rogers' shoulders from behind in a rough, friendly kind of way, earning a smile from Rogers.

"Here, Steve, hand me your keys," Romanoff said. Rogers handed them over, and Romanoff opened his door and let into his apartment the steadily growing crowd of people arriving on the landing. Several more S.T.R.I.K.E. guys had just showed up, and Sharon made note of their names, too, as they filed in.

"Clint's up on the roof. I'm going to go help him set up," Romanoff said, handing Rogers his keys back and then disappearing up the stairs.

"Some kind of party?" Sharon asked, nodding toward all the people.

"Yeah," Rogers said, looking a little embarrassed. "It's... my birthday."

"No kidding," Sharon said, feigning surprise. "Well, happy birthday!"

"Thanks." He hesitated for a moment and then said, "You're, uh, you're welcome to join us. There's going to be food, and then we're going to watch the fireworks from the rooftop."

"Oh, thank you, but I already have plans," Sharon said politely, although she couldn't deny feeling a sudden stab of regret that she couldn't accept Rogers' invitation. Fury had specified that she should limit her contact to casual encounters, and as fun as it would be to attend a party with Captain America, there was zero chance she could get away with it without Fury finding out, considering the place was packed with S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives. She'd have to keep an eye on things from a distance tonight, listening to the audio from the bugs in his apartment and watching through the camera in her peephole to see who went in and out. Fury had emphasized the need to know who was getting close to Rogers, and a social event like this was the perfect opportunity.

Sharon glanced down to see a couple coming up the stairs: a woman with auburn hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and a man in a sharp suit and sunglasses. He took off his sunglasses and his face was instantly recognizable: Tony Stark.

Sharon stared at him openly — after all, that's what a nobody nurse in Washington, D.C. would do if she spotted the world's most famous playboy unexpectedly arriving on her doorstep — and Stark grinned broadly at her, seemingly anticipating the girlish squeals and requests for selfies that he probably figured was coming.

She squinted her eyes, scrutinizing Stark for a long moment. Finally, she shook her head and glanced back over at Rogers. "I think you've got _your_ gig down, Steve, but honestly? His Iron Man impression needs some work," she told him, and was rewarded by another full-watt smile from Rogers.

"Feisty," Stark said.

He and his companion went on into Rogers' apartment, and they were followed by two men in dark suits. They weren't wearing earpieces, at least not that she could see, but Sharon instantly tagged them as security. One was stocky and curly-haired, while the other was tall and broad-shouldered and...

Sharon froze as their eyes met. Her cousin Harrison! She knew that he worked security at Stark Tower, but she hadn't realized exactly what that entailed. Quickly, she looked away, feigning disinterest, but she lingered on the landing, pulling out her phone and pretending to check a notification as an excuse to stick around.

Everyone disappeared into Rogers' apartment except Harrison, who carefully inspected the window to see if it was locked. He didn't make eye contact with Sharon again, but she knew he knew she was there.

Keeping her head down pretending to text someone, she whispered: "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Guarding Tony Stark's body, among other things," Harrison said softly, keeping his eyes on the window. "What are you doing?"

"Guarding Steve Rogers' body. Among other things."

They briefly made eye contact, and suddenly they both grinned at each other. Just then, the curly-haired man poked his head back through the door, and Harrison straightened up and turned his back on Sharon.

"Hallway secure, Mr. Hogan," he told the other man in a crisp voice.

Hogan nodded. "Why don't you go up and secure the roof. They'll be going up there soon. I'll stay here with Mr. Stark."

"Yes, sir."

Hogan disappeared back into Rogers' apartment and shut the door. The two of them were left alone again.

"How's Christina?" Sharon asked conversationally.

Harrison shoved one fist into his pocket, leaning back against the wall casually. "Sick of being pregnant."

Sharon was taken aback. "She's _pregnant_?" She hadn't seen Christina since Christmas, but she hadn't had any idea that was the case.

Harrison smiled knowingly. "Yeah, I know how you feel. This one surprised us, too."

"How many weeks?" Sharon asked.

"Thirty-eight."

"Brave man, to leave New York at a time like this," Sharon observed.

He shrugged. "Duty called. I made her solemnly swear not to go into labor today, so..." He winked reassuringly.

"Boy or girl?"

"A boy, they say," Harrison said, and then added wryly: "But I've heard _that_ before, and look what happened."

Sharon smiled widely. "You two make pretty cute girls."

"I guess I could stand one more around the house." He grinned openly, laugh lines creasing around his eyes.

"I better not keep you from your work," Sharon said reluctantly, although she wished they could chat longer. Harrison had always been easy to talk to, and the similarities of their professions gave them plenty to talk about. She'd wondered sometimes why he hadn't followed in his grandmother's and father's footsteps and joined S.H.I.E.L.D. himself, but she figured he had wanted to make his own mark on the world in his own way, and working for Tony Stark was certainly nothing to sneeze at.

Harrison nodded, growing more serious. "I'll watch your man up on the roof tonight if you watch mine when he's down here," he said softly.

"Deal," Sharon agreed in a murmur, adding, "although I don't know who would be dumb enough to attack a party attended by four Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s STRIKE team."

She spoke lightly, intending it as a joke, but Harrison frowned in response.

"Eyes up, Sharon," he said softly but seriously. "Stay sharp. Especially here."

He headed up to the roof, taking the stairs two at a time, and Sharon went back into her apartment and quietly closed the door. Safely inside, she quickly texted the list of party attendees to Maria Hill, waiting long enough to get an acknowledgement before she settled into a chair to watch the peephole camera.

She knew she could trust her cousin to keep an eye on things up on the roof, yet she wished that she could be up there herself. Rightly or wrongly, she often thought that thanks to all the time she'd spent watching Rogers in New York — when he had been fighting the biggest but loneliest battle of his life — in a way she knew him better than anyone else did. It would have been nice to get to know him face to face, without artifice or limitation.

Oh, well. She had gotten two good smiles out of Rogers today, and she'd have to be content with that.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** Someone asked me a few chapters back for more Tony Stark, so I hope you liked it! Also, I don't know why, but I get such a kick out of writing "first meetings" for characters we never got to see meet, like Steve and Pepper. Finally, if you're curious about Harrison Carter and haven't read my story "The Third Life of Steve Rogers," you may want to give it a try._

_Leave a review and let me know what you thought!_


	25. Chapter 25

_**Author's note:** Thanks to Spidershadow5, Nimrodel 101, dissatisfieduser, and all my readers! _

* * *

**Chapter 25**

The rooftop was packed with chatting, laughing people, most of whom Steve knew from working with them at S.H.I.E.L.D. in some capacity. As the birthday party host, Clint Barton looked to be in his element as he flipped burgers over a grill and served them up to the guests with good spirits as well as aplomb, dressed in an apron emblazoned with the words "I never miss" in bright purple letters.

"This is one of the best cheeseburgers I've ever had," Tony was telling him between bites as he watched Clint cook. "And I've had a _lot_ of cheeseburgers in my day."

"Yeah, well, practice makes perfect," Clint said modestly as he slid a patty onto Agent Klein's outstretched plate. "And I've had a lot of practice."

"Let me guess," Tony said, waving the last few bites of his burger meaningfully. "You were working at Burger King when S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited you to be a master assassin."

Clint smiled broadly, blue eyes glinting. "No way."

"What, then? McDonald's? Wendy's?"

Clint just laughed and shook his head as he flipped a whole row of burgers over, one after another, with a sure hand, and Steve wondered, as he had several times before, how on earth an agent who was at the peak of his game, working for 15 years in a job that was so high-pressure that many new agents burned out within six months, managed to be so strangely... _normal_.

As Clint and Tony continued to verbally spar, Steve glanced over to see Agent Klein standing by the condiment table, struggling to open a pickle jar. Silently Steve held out his hand, and after a second Klein handed it to him with a sheepish grin. Steve opened it with ease and handed it back.

"That's putting your taxpayer dollars to work, Klein," Clint quipped, looking at Steve with a grin.

"_His_ tax dollars didn't pay for all that muscle," Tony said.

"Well, my grandfather's did," Klein put in, although it took him some time to get through the stammer, and Tony looked visibly impatient by the time he did.

Steve followed Klein over to the table once his own plate was loaded, and drew him out into a conversation about his grandfather, which turned out to be pretty interesting, and before long a couple of other agents were listening in with active interest, too. As usual, Klein's stammer got less noticeable as the conversation went on; Steve had noticed that his level of ease really did make a difference in how well he communicated.

"So how'd we do?" Clint asked Steve much later as he turned off the grill and started scraping it clean. It was getting dark; the fireworks would start soon. "Having a good time?"

"I think this may be the best birthday I've ever had," Steve admitted.

Clint pumped his fist into the air in a triumphant gesture, looking self-satisfied. "The only thing we forgot was the apple pie."

"Apple pie?"

"Would've fit in well with the evening's Americana theme. Didn't think of it 'til now, though."

"I'm not really a fan of apple pie," Steve admitted.

"You don't..." Clint stared at him, stunned. "_You don't like apple pie?_"

"Apples really shouldn't be _cooked_-" Steve started to explain.

"Ladies and gentleman!" Clint shouted, and all the little groups of people standing around stopped their chatting and turned to look. "I'd like to announce that Captain America does not like apple pie!" he proclaimed at top volume, "which is not only un-American but also completely _wrong_, and as a result we'll be asking him to turn in his uniform and his shield, and also to choose another name!"

He got a lot of laughs, the loudest one of all from Brock Rumlow, who left his group of STRIKE guys and came over to them, staggering a little.

"Hey Cap," Rumlow said as he came closer to Steve with beer bottle in hand — uncomfortably close, actually. As usual, he had gone a day or two without shaving, leaving a short scruff on his chin and cheeks. "Just think. If your parents hadn't come to America... you would have been Captain _Ireland_."

He slurred the last word atrociously, and then laughed riotously. Clint laughed too, although he seemed to be laughing at the state Rumlow was in more than Rumlow's joke.

"You know what this party's missing? We need a _drinking_ song!" Rumlow suddenly burst out. "Hey, Cap... teach us a good Irish drinking song."

"What makes you think he knows a drinking song?" Clint asked.

"Oh come on..." Rumlow drawled. "I bet the Howling Cadammos... Cadam... _Commandos_ had a drinking song."

"More than one," Steve admitted.

"See?" Rumlow waved his hand dramatically. "Take it away, Cap!"

Instantly, the joyous tune for "Whiskey in the Jar" popped into Steve's head, followed rapidly by the more wistful melody of "Back Home in Derry," but this hardly seemed the time and place for either one of them. The first one reminded him too much of Bucky, and the second too much of his mother.

And so he held his tongue. Fortunately, Rumlow was too drunk to focus on an idea for more than a few seconds.

"I gotta take a leak," he said suddenly. "Cap, your place unlocked?"

Steve fished his keys out of his pants pocket — he'd changed into civvies as soon as he'd gotten home — and handed them to Rumlow, who turned and headed for the stairs, followed by a couple of guys from STRIKE and then, after a beat, one of Tony's bodyguards, the taller one. Unusually tall for a Chinese man — or maybe he was Vietnamese? Apparently lots of people needed the bathroom.

"Okay, now I'm sorry I invited him," Clint said as soon as they were gone. "I didn't know he got like that when he drinks."

"It's okay," Steve said. He was surprised, too; Rumlow had never gotten himself in that kind of state during those after-work sports bar gatherings.

"Yeah, well, if he pukes on your floor, I'm gonna make him clean it up with his own shirt," Clint said.

Just then, the first of the fireworks went off, sending a bloom of red sparks across the sky. There were exclamations from several people, and the chatter died down for a while as everyone moved to where they could get a good view of the show.

Steve found himself standing behind Nat, and glanced back to make sure he wasn't blocking anyone's view. That was when he noticed that Tony was still sitting at a card table, face lit up by the high-end tablet he was looking down at. Come to think of it, he'd retreated into silence behind that tablet quite a while ago. Steve was surprised he wasn't still mingling, given he seemed every bit the extrovert Howard had been. Pepper was bending over him, one hand on his shoulder.

"Put it away, Tony," Steve heard her urge. "Come and watch the fireworks."

"Just a minute," Tony said, waving her away without looking up. "I'm trying to work out a bug with Mark 10's guidance system."

"Come on, Tony, this is supposed to be a party," she urged. "You love parties, remember? That can wait until tomorrow." She tried to take the tablet out of his hands, but he pulled it in close to his chest.

"No, it can't," he said irritably. "I might need that suit before then."

"What are the odds that before _tomorrow morning_-" she started skeptically.

"I don't know," Tony shot back, "probably the same odds that the Chitauri would attack on May 4, 2012."

"You have _nine other suits__,_" she pointed out. "Tony, you promised me you wouldn't do this today. You have to take breaks sometimes. This is getting ridiculous."

"I said I'll be there in just a minute," he insisted. "Look, you're missing it. Go watch the show. Go."

Pepper made an exasperated gesture with her hands, but finally she reluctantly left him and went over by the others to watch the fireworks.

Suddenly, everything seemed to click in place for Steve: Tony's visible exhaustion, his wild mood swings all day, Pepper's seeming overreaction to Tony wanting a drink... and now this fixation on work in the middle of a party, when his reputation suggested his preference was in the other direction.

It was all just a little too familiar.

Steve slipped away from the other guests who were watching the fireworks show, and sat down at the card table across from Tony. Tony glanced up, red light from the fireworks and blue light from his tablet reflecting off opposite sides of his face.

"How are you doing, Tony?" Steve asked him.

Tony's eyes flicked back down to his screen. "Never better."

"You sleeping okay?"

Tony paused in the act of rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. "What?"

"You look tired," Steve said. "Are you sleeping okay at night?"

Tony shot him an odd look. "Who are you, Dr. Spock? I run a little company — you might have heard of it, it's called Stark Industries — and I don't always get to log in eight hours in the sack. The whole world wants a piece of me." He swiped at his screen with a flourish. "I've seen you on a few magazine covers yourself," he went on, his eyes on the screen. "Looking very handsome, in a squeaky-clean gee-whiz kind of way. Do chicks dig that? I've heard your fan club is just raking in new memberships. Before New York it was all 90-year-old women... at least, that was the rumor."

"Fury insisted I do some interviews," Steve said briefly, refusing to let Tony sidetrack him in such a blatantly transparent way. "And speaking of New York-"

"We _weren't_ speaking of New York."

"Tony... everything that happened there?" Steve began carefully. "Most people never experience anything like it in their lifetime. And you took a worse hit than any of us. It's really not surprising if-"

"It was hardly my first rumble," Tony interrupted. "I was taking down all kinds of idiots while you were kicking back having a nice nap in the ice, Mr. Rip Van Winkle."

Steve ignored the jab; he was starting to realize Tony didn't mean anything by them. "I know, but that doesn't make you immune to the effects. Believe me, I know."

Tony stared at him for a long moment, slowly sitting up a little straighter. "Are you telling me _you're_ having trouble sleeping?"

"Now? No, but-"

"No, of course you aren't," Tony said with a hint of bitterness. "Of course not _you_."

"-but I did before the battle," Steve finished bluntly.

A confused look wandered across Tony's face. "Before?"

"Yeah. Because of what happened to me, waking up the way I did," he said softly. It was terrifying to admit it, especially considering who he was talking to, but if Tony was having the same problem, he had a responsibility to help if he could. The way Maria Hill had helped him.

Tony turned his body toward Steve more fully, looking incredulous. "And you're telling me you got better _after_ the battle?"

"Everyone's different, Tony," he explained gently. "I needed a purpose. After the battle, I felt like I'd found one. I'm not completely out of the woods yet, but... it's been better, now that I've gone back to work."

Tony looked away again, staring toward the fireworks but not really seeing them. "Work, huh?"

"Have you spoken to someone?" Steve asked. "About the insomnia?"

"I never said I had insomnia," Tony said shortly. "We were talking about _you_. Jeez, Steve, you talk about yourself as much as a Kardashian. And don't even think about Googling that name," he added in an aside. "You'll regret it. Probably give yourself a coronary... if your heart wasn't so perfect." He rubbed the glowing circle in his chest absent-mindedly as he spoke, and then he turned back to his tablet in a clear dismissal.

After a long hesitation, Steve left him to his work, knowing there was only so much he could do; he and Tony just hadn't known each other long enough to build up that kind of trust. But he took comfort in the fact that Tony had someone like Pepper looking after him. He would be all right. Steve knew now that time could heal as well as destroy.

When the fireworks show was over, the party began to slowly break up. Clint ushered Rumlow and a few of the drunker STRIKE guys down the stairs to give them a ride home, and Pepper took Tony away, followed by their two bodyguards, one of whom glanced back as he left. He was probably just doing a last-minute security check — Steve knew from experience that it was difficult to break that habit, once you were in it — yet the man had a hint of a smile on his face as his eyes swept over Steve and Nat. And then he was gone.

* * *

HARRISON CARTER: Heading out. Everyone's gone but Rogers and Romanoff.

SHARON CARTER: Thanks. Saw you come down to his apartment with Rumlow earlier. Why?

HARRISON CARTER: Just keeping an eye on things.

HARRISON CARTER: At the risk of sticking my nose in your business...

HARRISON CARTER: From the roof I could see several clear lines of sight to his apartment windows from other buildings nearby.

HARRISON CARTER: Have you checked that out?

SHARON CARTER: Trust me, no one's spying on Rogers but me.

HARRISON CARTER: More worried about snipers than spies.

SHARON CARTER: You're paranoid.

HARRISON CARTER: It's my job.

SHARON CARTER: If you're so paranoid, why did you just leave my guy alone on a roof with an ex-KGB agent?

HARRISON CARTER: Romanoff's okay. I've checked her out.

SHARON CARTER: You? When? Why?

HARRISON CARTER: She applied for a job at Stark Industries, remember? I ran the background check.

SHARON CARTER: You missed something.

HARRISON CARTER: Ha, ha. I knew she was S.H.I.E.L.D., even if Stark didn't. Like I said, she checked out.

SHARON CARTER: Are you kidding me?

HARRISON CARTER: It's my job to keep him safe. That doesn't always mean telling him everything.

SHARON CARTER: What else don't you tell him?

HARRISON CARTER: Who I'm related to. I know you understand that.

SHARON CARTER: Tell me the truth. Do you work for Tony Stark, or for your Grandma Peggy?

HARRISON CARTER: Answer me first. Do you work for Nick Fury, or for your Great-Aunt Peggy?

SHARON CARTER: Touche.

* * *

Steve and Nat sat together at the card table, not talking much. There were other, smaller, fireworks exploding in the distance all around the city, and long lines of headlights and taillights visible on the streets below as everyone headed home after the celebrations at the National Mall, but here on the roof they seemed to be above it all. The temperature was perfect, warm but with a bit of a breeze.

After a long silence, Nat stirred and looked over at him. "Steve?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad you're not Captain Ireland."

A smile spread across his face. "Doesn't have the same ring, does it?"

Nat smiled, too. "So why _did_ your parents come here?" she asked curiously.

"Well... my dad worked at an iron smelting facility in County Down," he said.

"That sounds unpleasant."

Steve shrugged. "The work, he could deal with. It was the management that was a problem. They were English and Protestant — and they didn't like anyone who was Irish or Catholic. Which was most of the workers. There was a lot of..." He trailed off.

"Harassment?" Nat filled in.

"Yeah," Steve admitted. "And it wasn't just there, either... it was everywhere. Not much recourse from the government, either. When my dad married my mom, he promised her a better life than that. So they packed up and came here. Settled down in Brooklyn."

"And then what?"

"There weren't a lot of good jobs around, not in those days, but my dad did some work on the subway lines, and some brick-laying. They got by okay, but then the war broke out, and dad felt it was his duty to go. My mom didn't know she was expecting until after he'd gone overseas."

"Oh, Steve-"

"Don't worry. She had the Irish grit. I'm sure it was a shock when she lost him, but she never despaired. It wasn't in her character."

"What did she do?"

"She scrimped and saved to get some training as a nurse, and then went looking for jobs at hospitals. She was a real hard worker, my mom, and nurses were in demand even during the Depression, but she couldn't get hired right away. Finally she figured out what the problem was." He shrugged a little. "She taught herself to sound more American, and after that she had more luck getting hired."

"It was because of her _accent_?" Romanoff asked, frowning a little.

"New Yorkers... let's just say they didn't love the Irish back in the day," Steve said.

He could remember it all too vividly: one of his earliest childhood memories. The kids in the neighborhood who had mocked his soft brogue, who had called him "bog-trotter" and "Paddy." And then they had started pushing him around, and in terror he had run down the street, just wanting to get away from them. But to his dismay, they hadn't left him alone. They'd chased him all the way down the street, laughing and teasing him the whole way, and he couldn't run fast enough to get away from them. He had never forgotten that horrible feeling of helplessness. The humiliation of it. And when he finally made it home and stumbled through the front door in the throes of a bad asthma attack, his mother had sat up with him for hours, helping him inhale the steam from the steeped herbs until he finally stopped wheezing. By then, he had set his jaw and come to a simple decision.

No more running.

He'd learned to stand up, push back. He never started a fight, and he rarely ended them, but he could make himself so much trouble for the bullies to deal with that they eventually gave up and left him alone. That was a kind of victory, too.

"How is that both you and your dad ended up fighting in a world war on behalf of a country that didn't even like you?" Nat asked, wrinkling her nose.

"There was nothing wrong with the country," Steve said calmly. "Only some of the people in it. And you'll find that anywhere; it's human nature. It's the ideals that set America apart, ideals like freedom and responsibility and fairness for everyone. Even if we don't always manage to live up to them, we're always trying to do better." He raised his eyebrows at her. "Isn't that why _you_ came here?"

Nat thought for a moment. "You know, in Russia... the KGB didn't trust their own operatives," she said slowly. "It didn't matter where I went or what I did, they were always restricting me or watching me or tracking me in some way. S.H.I.E.L.D. did that too, for a while, but once I had proven myself to Fury, he eventually took the leash off. Do you know the first thing I did as soon as I realized I was free, _really_ free, to do whatever I wanted, with whoever I wanted to do it with?"

He shook his head.

Nat smiled in remembrance. "I dragged Clint to a Beastie Boys concert. Went to the front, right up by the stage, and danced my brains out for three solid hours. Best day of my life."

Steve smiled, too. "God bless America."

"God bless America," she agreed, and they laughed together.

They fell silent for a few minutes. Fireworks popped in the distance, and the breeze ruffled their hair.

"You know what you need, Steve?" Nat said thoughtfully, out of the blue.

"What's that?"

"You need a girlfriend."

Steve paused a long moment. "Wow. Thanks, Nat."

"It isn't so much that you need a girlfriend," she quickly amended. "It's that a girlfriend needs _you_. Do you have any idea how many women are out there looking for a nice guy? You could make someone's day. You could make someone's _life_."

"Well," he said slowly, not sure how to react or how much to say. How could anyone from this time understand just how much the traditions around courtship and marriage had changed since his time? How could they ever appreciate what had been lost? The innocence, the gentility, the slow burning romance... as far as he could tell, they had been largely jettisoned from society in favor of other, faster ways to get pleasure. Even some of the church-going women had different expectations now, he'd discovered to his shock. And he knew without being told that no one, but _no_ one, would want to hear a lecture from him on this particular subject. So what could he do? He couldn't bend to the ways of the world, and they wouldn't bend to his.

And yet even that wasn't the reason, although it was _a_ reason. There was a part of him that wanted to tell Nat what he had told Clint — that there just wasn't enough shared life experience for him to make a connection with anyone from this time — but over the last few weeks a suspicion had been growing in the back of his mind that maybe he wasn't being completely honest with himself about that. Maybe he was just making excuses.

Maybe the truth was simpler: He couldn't forgive any of them for not being Peggy.

"It's complicated," he said simply.

"Not _that_ complicated," Nat said, tipping her chair back against the wall and putting her feet casually up on the table. "I mean, what's the story with your neighbor?"

He frowned. "Who, Kate?"

"Yeah. She seems nice. I think she's into you."

"She doesn't know me," Steve said. "We've never done anything but make small talk."

"Well, whose fault is _that_?" Nat teased.

He smiled a little, but didn't answer.

"You are such a mystery, Steve," Nat said softly after a long pause. "You only ever say a tenth of what you think."

"Isn't that true of everyone?"

Nat shook her head. "Plenty of people say ten times _more_ than what's in their head," she said wryly. Then her eyes softened. "Seriously. Tell me why it's complicated. You'll feel better if you get it off your chest."

He almost did it. He almost opened his mouth and let it all spill out. It _had_ been a relief to talk to Rumlow about Bucky. Maybe it would help if he told Nat about Peggy.

But as he tried to sort his thoughts into words orderly enough to say out loud...

It was like a slow-motion explosion of pain inside him, made all the worse because he'd already been thinking of Peggy earlier that day in the limo. Ever since then, he'd been replaying in the back of his mind the conversation he'd had with her in the cab on the way to the SSR's hidden facility in Brooklyn, the first time he had realized that far from being too high above him, Peggy was actually _like_ him. An underdog. A fighter. She'd found her place in the world a little quicker than he had found his, that was all. She'd cultivated a serene confidence in her own abilities that no detractor could take away from her, and she'd given him the courage to find that same peace for himself. Bucky had been right about him all along — he _had_ been desperate to prove himself — but it was Peggy who had showed him how it was done.

And now she was gone. Peggy was gone. He could never get her back.

Steve shook his head silently.

Nat studied his face closely. "You can trust me, you know," she said. "You're always holding me at arm's length. You didn't think I noticed. But I'm very good at keeping confidences. Just ask Clint."

"I know," he said. But he pressed his lips together, determined to say nothing more, and after a few moments Nat turned away from him slightly, hugging her arms against her chest although the night breeze was still warm.

"That's okay," she said quietly, her words coming out strangely choppy. "I can understand why someone like you... wouldn't trust someone like me."

He was so floored by Nat's response, and the apparent offense she had taken at something he had said, that his anguish over Peggy was stopped cold in its tracks, and he found himself fumbling for words. "Someone like me... someone like you...?" he asked, bewildered. Why did women have to be so opaque all the time? "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Nat laughed humorlessly, still turned partly away from him. "It means that one of us has made a lot of terrible mistakes in her life. And one of us hasn't made any."

For a moment there was a flash of real pain in her eyes, but then she glanced back up at Steve, and suddenly her face changed.

"Wow," she said, looking startled. "I just _really_ ticked you off. What did I say?"

He didn't trust himself to speak, so he didn't. Instead he got up and went over to the edge of the roof, bracing his hands against the wall and staring at the D.C. traffic going by. Without hesitation Nat followed him.

"Don't _do_ that," she burst out, a sudden anger coloring her voice. "Damn it, Steve, just _say_ it. Whatever it is, I can handle it!"

"You are the second person to call me perfect tonight," Steve said, fighting to get his anger under control. "The next person who says it is going to get drop-kicked off a roof."

Nat looked bewildered. "I can't call you perfect?" she demanded. "Why not?"

"Because I'm _not_."

Nat laughed in disbelief. "How are you not? Name one flaw. Go ahead. I'll wait."

He was angry enough now that he couldn't resist taking the bait. "I know what people say about me. Mr. Nice Guy. Life magazine put it on their cover in big block letters right next to my face. The truth is... I'm not a nice person, Natasha, and anyone who thinks I am is going to end up disappointed."

"Bull-" she started, and then quickly bit off the word before she finished it. "Bullcrap," she hastily amended. "You _are_ nice."

"I'm polite. There's a difference."

"Well, you're going to have to explain that one, because you've lost me."

"Nice people don't hurt people's feelings. I _have_, and chances are good I'll do it again." He took a quick breath. "I'm nice when I can be, but sometimes I can't. Do you know why?"

Nat's eyes were intent on his. "Tell me."

"It's because some things are more important to me. Things like being honest. Making sure justice is done. Protecting people's lives... or their rights. If you pin me into a corner, if you force me to choose between doing what I think is right or sparing your feelings... I'll hurt you. Every time. And then I get to live with the look of betrayal on your face, because you didn't understand that about me until it was too late."

Nat was quiet for a moment. "That happened to you?" she asked at last.

"Why do you think I got beat up so much, back in Brooklyn? I can't turn a blind eye. I can't let things slide. And nobody likes a goody two-shoes. Once I embarrassed a man in front of a theater full of people because he was heckling the employees to show the movie instead of war reels. There was a woman crying — probably had a father or a brother or a lover overseas — and the guy wouldn't shut up. Everyone else in the room was just tolerating it. I _couldn't_. And that guy was a stranger, but you know what? I would have done the same thing if he had been my best friend."

"You're going to think this is crazy," Nat said slowly, "but given how much of my life was spent being lied to and having my emotions toyed with by people who just wanted to manipulate me into doing things... the thought of having a friend who does the right thing even when it hurts me is actually-" She met his eyes with a hint of a smile on her lips. "-strangely appealing." She scrutinized him a little skeptically. "Are you _sure_ that's a flaw, Steve?"

"Considering how much trouble it's caused me," he said grimly, "I'd have to say yes."

She frowned. "What kind of trouble?"

"It's why I never really fit in anywhere. Not in Brooklyn, not in the Army, not anywhere. I've been this way for as long as I can remember." He looked down. "Sometimes I think I was born on the wrong planet. I've had people I cared about. People who cared about me. But no one ever really _got_ me, except-" He cut himself off.

"-except that one person who we are definitely not talking about tonight," Nat finished matter-of-factly.

Steve took a deep breath and let it out. "Please don't think that has anything to do with trusting or not trusting you. There are some things I'm not ready to talk about yet."

"Okay. I'm sorry I pushed you." Nat was genuinely contrite. "And I'm sorry I called you perfect."

"That's okay."

"But no matter what you say, Steve," she added then, her eyes dancing with a hint of mischief, "I still think you're pretty nice."

"Well, you can think what you want," Steve said with resignation. "It's a free country."

"God bless America," Nat quipped again. "Hey, Steve. Did I just give you your first fight-with-a-friend since 1945?"

Steve thought for a moment. "You know what? I think you did."

"Ooo, this is a moment for the history books!" Nat said, breaking out into a wide smile. "I'm gonna call the Smithsonian right now." She jokingly pulled out her phone, but Steve put one hand gently over hers and made her lower the phone.

"Nat," he said, still stuck on what she had said earlier.

"What?"

"Do you-" He hesitated. "Do you look down on yourself? Because of your past?"

The smile faded from her face. "Of course," she said after a beat. Her tone was quiet, but matter-of-fact. "Wouldn't you?"

Steve frowned. "But what you did all those years... it wasn't you. The people who controlled you, they're the ones who're responsible."

"Yes," Nat said. "And no." She took a deep breath. "You weren't there, Steve. You don't know the things I did. It's not like- It's not like someone was holding a gun to my head every moment of every day. Some of the things I did... I _did_ choose them. At least partly. Some days I don't even know myself how much of it was me and how much of it wasn't, but... My hands aren't as clean as you think." She paused. "To borrow a phrase from you... it's complicated."

"Well, I don't judge people by their worst mistakes," Steve said. "You shouldn't either."

Nat shot him a startled look.

"What?" he asked.

She took a quick breath. "That's pretty much what Clint said to me. When... when he spared me." She shook her head and scowled. "It's ridiculously naive. You know that, right?"

"I would say merciful."

"Thought you were all about justice."

"They go together. You know that, right?" He imitated her inflections, and almost against her will she smiled slightly.

"Besides," Steve continued, "I'm not sure how much you did or didn't choose your actions matters in the way you think it does. Don't you believe in repentance?"

Nat shot him a look of grim disbelief. "You really think a couple of Hail Marys can wash away the things I've done?"

"That isn't what repentance is," Steve said mildly.

"Oh, really? Enlighten me."

"It just means becoming a different person. Once, you were the kind of person who could do those things. Now you're not."

The breeze flared up, stirring Nat's hair. "I don't think it's that simple."

Steve acknowledged that with a nod. "Yeah. Maybe the good things you're doing now can't undo the things you did in the past. But they're not nothing, either. That remorse you feel, that guilt... It's there to make you want to be a better person. You've already started to do that. I think someday, when you're ready, you could let go of the guilt."

Nat exhaled explosively. "Let go of it? Just like that?"

"Just like that." And then he added — with a smile to show he was teasing — "And saying a couple of Hail Marys couldn't hurt."

She smiled a little in return. "Well then, you better say them for me."

"I already do."

She closed her eyes, hesitating for a long moment, and then suddenly blurted out: "So does that mean you forgive me?"

"Forgive you?" Steve repeated.

Nat locked her eyes on his, an uncharacteristically naked expression on her face. "For what I did," she said. Her eyes seemed to be pleading with him.

Sensing that this question was more important to Nat than he could know, Steve answered carefully.

"I think maybe you're asking the wrong person," he said at last. "You haven't done anything to me."

She looked at him steadily, lips parting slightly in surprise.

"As far as I'm concerned, you and I have a blank slate," Steve said firmly.

Nat's eyes unexpectedly moistened. "Never had one of those before," she said, trying to smile. "I'll... try not to mess it up."

"I don't believe you will."

"I hate you, Steve Rogers," she said, smudging away a tear impatiently. "I was trying to pry into _your_ business tonight."

He lifted his eyebrows, not feeling particularly sorry. "Well, it's about time someone gave you a taste of your own medicine."

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** This is one of those scenes I had to rewrite multiple times to get it right, and it's always hard for me to stay objective about it after a lot of back-and-forth. Let me know what you think!_


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

"Go ahead in," the secretary told Sharon Carter before she could even announce herself, and then leaned forward to press a button that slid open the door behind her. "Director Fury will be here in a minute."

Fury's office wasn't empty, Sharon discovered when she walked in; Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton and Brock Rumlow were already waiting there. Romanoff was sitting in Fury's chair, her feet up on the desk, chewing on a pencil with a contemplative air. Her hair wasn't its usual fall of red curls; she'd straightened it and had it cut bluntly at the ends, which had the effect of making her look almost severe, although her beauty still shone out. Sharon wondered idly if the change had been a matter of fashion preference, or just one of the usual tricks of women in their business to keep them from being recognized too easily.

Barton was perched on the edge of Fury's desk, taking a swig from one of those energy drinks that contain an obscene amount of caffeine and sugar. "Agent 13," he said politely, nodding to her.

"Hey. Go get me one of those," Rumlow said, nudging Barton with his elbow.

Barton unexpectedly produced a second can from the pocket of his jacket and handed it to Rumlow. "Knew you'd say that," he said with a hint of smugness, and Rumlow raised the can in a silent toast to Barton before cracking it open.

"13?" Barton asked, holding up his can. "You want one? I'll go grab one for you."

"No thanks," she said quickly. As if she needed something like _that_ to put her on edge. A meeting with Fury did the trick just fine.

Just then, Fury himself strode into the room and took in the four of them in a single glance, his eye lingering on Romanoff's feet on his desk with a faint scowl of disapproval, but he merely leaned up against the cabinets and folded his arms expectantly.

"Final recommendations on Steve Rogers," he said without preamble. "Agent 13?"

"He's doing well," Sharon said warmly. "A few lingering symptoms here and there, but nothing like before. He's stable, he's happy, and he's anxious to get back into the fight. I think we should let him."

Fury nodded. "Barton? Romanoff? How did your training with him go?"

"Sir, I have _never_ seen anyone work that hard or learn that fast," Barton put in. "Steve drinks in new combat forms the same way Rumlow here downs Red Bull." He slapped Rumlow's back, and Rumlow snorted with agreement. "And I have to say, sir: he is one of the easiest people to get along with that I have ever worked with. Just an absolute pleasure. Agents are gonna be fighting each other to get assigned alongside him."

"Romanoff?" Fury prompted.

She smiled slightly, tilting her chin up at Fury. "Ditto."

Fury raised an eyebrow at her brevity, but moved on without comment. "Rumlow?"

"He's a force to be reckoned with," Rumlow agreed. "He gave me and the boys a real good run for our money these last few weeks. Of course, he's no Hulk. He ain't impervious — if he gets shot point-blank in the back of the head he'll be just as dead as anyone — but even though he feels every hit he takes, he takes it like a man and gets up and dishes it right back out. He's easily S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best asset, sir: The perfect soldier."

"Steve doesn't like it when you use that word," Romanoff suddenly interjected.

Rumlow stared at her blankly. "What, _soldier_?"

Her only answer was a sly smile, and after a moment, Rumlow shrugged one shoulder and turned back to Fury. "Sir, I recommend you put him out in the field as soon as possible. He's ready."

"I agree," Sharon chimed in.

Fury looked at Romanoff and Barton, who exchanged glances.

"Nick, we wanted him out _weeks_ ago," Romanoff said.

"Mostly because he's gonna make our jobs so much easier," Barton added with a glint of fun in his eyes.

"I guess that makes it unanimous," Fury said. He stood up and opened the door to his office. "Thank you for your work, everyone."

Fury had the rare gift of keeping meetings short and to the point, and Barton and Rumlow both fairly bolted for the door: it was Friday afternoon and they were probably glad to get the chance to leave a little early. Romanoff, on the other hand, made no move to go, she just crossed her ankles and wiggled deeper into the seat to get more comfortable.

Sharon nodded to Fury and strolled out, past the secretary's desk and through the secure door into the corridor. Barton and Rumlow were just turning the corner out of sight, leaving Sharon free to slip into a nearby conference room, where she found Maria Hill waiting to hear the second half of her report.

* * *

"Something more you wanted to say?" Fury asked Romanoff knowingly, shoving one fist inside his pocket as he paced the length of his office.

"You know, when I first met him, I thought Rogers was an even better actor than _I_ was," Romanoff said, tipping her head back against the seat to look up at him. "Noble and upright and honest and all that Captain America baloney. Not a single crack in the facade. Pretty impressive feat."

"But?" Fury said expectantly.

Romanoff shook her head slowly, growing thoughtful. "It isn't an act, is it? He's the real deal. I never would have thought it was possible. A grown man, who's seen the things he's seen... and somehow he kept himself above it all." Her eyes flicked up to Fury's face, genuine puzzlement etched in her features. "Do _you_ know that was possible?"

Fury took a long moment to answer. "In his day, maybe. It's a different world now."

"Is it?" Romanoff asked softly, almost to herself. She tapped the pencil against her lips a few times, and then looked up at Fury with almost a challenge in her eyes. "Rumlow's wrong," she said flatly. "Rogers isn't a perfect soldier. He's way too nice for that."

Fury smirked slightly. "Going back on your recommendation, Romanoff?"

"He's a good man," Romanoff said seriously. "And that makes him a lot more dangerous."

Fury's brow contracted. "_More_ dangerous? How so?"

Romanoff shrugged one shoulder. "Even the perfect soldier can be beaten, if you throw enough resources and personnel at him. But a good man, well... you're going to have to beat all the people who follow him, too. People who love goodness as much as he does." Her voice unexpectedly went a little softer, her eyes growing distant. "They're drawn to him like moths to a flame."

Fury gave her a look that was a little too knowing. "He get to you, Romanoff? Turn you into one of his moths?"

"Of course not," she said quickly. "But... he doesn't even _try_ to draw people to him. That's exactly why it's so hard to resist." She took her feet off the desk and stood up, looking at him with a sudden suspicion. "Haven't _you_ felt it too, Nick?" She scrutinized him carefully for a long moment. "You have, haven't you?"

But Fury didn't answer, he just stared out his window for a long moment, back stiff. "Don't you have some place to be, Romanoff?" he asked abruptly. "I've got a lot of work to do."

One corner of her lips turned up in a faintly suppressed smile, and then she left.

* * *

"Agent 13," Maria Hill said expectantly. "Have a seat."

"Fury said you had more questions for me," Sharon said, closing the door and joining her at the end of the conference table.

Hill nodded, folding her arms and resting them on the table thoughtfully. "I'd like to know who's getting close to Rogers, particularly during his hours away from the Triskelion."

"Romanoff most of all," Sharon said promptly. "She goes out of her way to draw him out. I mean, even after she spends all day with him at work, she's constantly texting him in the evenings, and going out with him on the weekends."

Hill's eyes flicked up to her face in surprise.

"I don't mean 'going out' going out," Sharon said quickly. "At least, I don't think- Well, I guess maybe, but I think it's just a friendly thing. Hanging out at his place, or hers, or out and about in the city." She shut her mouth before she devolved in full-blown babbling. She didn't quite understand Romanoff's zeal when it came to befriending Rogers, and thanks to the strangeness of Fury's assignment for her, Sharon had become more suspicious than she wanted to be. Was Fury worried that someone would try to mess with Rogers' head somehow? Undermine his loyalties to S.H.I.E.L.D.? Was he worried about Romanoff in particular? Given her past, it seemed obvious to suspect her of ulterior motives. But then why assign her to work closely with Rogers in the first place?

"Uh-huh," Hill said, stretching out the syllables as she made a small note on a notepad. "And is Rogers responding to her?"

"Yeah. I don't go through his apartment much anymore — Fury told me to back off from that — but the few times I have, I've looked through his sketchbook and seen sketches of her in there. And Barton, too," she added. "He flattered them both; I think they've made an impression on him."

Hill made another note. "Barton too. Okay."

"Are you worried about that?" Sharon asked before she could stop herself.

"Me? I don't worry about anything." Hill's face was unreadable. "Who else?"

"This maybe isn't exactly what you're looking for, but I think it's worth mentioning," Sharon said. "Rogers hasn't spent much time outside of work with Agent Klein, but he-" Sharon considered the right words. "Well, you know what Klein's like. He's one of the best technicians we have, but most agents don't realize it. He's so easy to overlook. But Rogers, he goes out of his way to talk to him. He's always asking his opinion, coaxing him out of his shell. And lately Klein's been a different man. He doesn't always hover around in the background anymore. I've even heard him speak up in a few meetings."

"I noticed that," Hill said, sounding a little surprised. "I wondered what that was about. Usually it's like pulling teeth trying to get him to talk. In person, I mean; he's always preferred communicating through emails." She added Klein's name to the list. "Okay. Who else?"

"Gabe. The janitor from our Manhattan headquarters, the one who helped Rogers transition into modern life after he first woke up?"

"Rogers has been to see _him_?" Hill asked, puzzled, and no wonder: Lacking the proper security clearance, Gabe had never even been told who Rogers really was, although he must have figured it out from watching the news after the Battle of New York. But then Rogers had transferred to D.C.

"Not exactly," Sharon said. "Not in person. But he signed over his last paycheck to Gabe."

"A whole paycheck? What on earth for?" Hill said in mystified tones.

"I took the liberty of contacting Gabe's supervisor," Sharon said. "Apparently he quit his job that same day to enroll in John Jay. His supervisor wasn't surprised; he'd been saving up for that for a while. He'd been planning to quit a year from now, but I guess his plans got accelerated. A check that big would do it."

"Did Gabe contact Rogers recently?" Hill asked with a frown.

"No," Sharon said positively. "They haven't spoken since New York. I think Rogers just got the idea on his own. You know, he- he never got to finish his own education, back in his own time. He went for a year, and then he just couldn't afford any more. And the way he used to talk to Gabe, when I was listening in on the mics... I think maybe he saw a little of himself in Gabe."

"Wow," Hill said in wonderment, shaking her head. "Okay. Who else?"

"Father Andreassen at St. Patrick's."

"His priest?"

Sharon nodded. "He goes to both Mass and confession regularly."

"How do you know it's about the priest himself?" Hill asked. "Maybe he's just going out of a sense of duty."

"It's more than that," Sharon said with certainty. "Rogers tried going to Mass in New York and never went back; there was something about that priest that was off-putting to him, I think. But it's different with Father Andreassen. I've seen Rogers go into the church for confession only to come right back out when he finds out Father Andreassen isn't there that day. He's even been over to his house a few times after services and stayed for hours. I think there's real trust there."

Hill didn't jot down that name, and Sharon guessed why: when Fury had given her this assignment, he had asked her to keep an eye on Rogers' S.H.I.E.L.D. contacts in particular. Apparently he wasn't as interested in Rogers' outside relationships, and granted, there weren't many, given the kind of hours Rogers had been working since he moved to D.C. There were a few elderly veterans he was friendly with and visited from time to time on the weekends, but nothing significant.

"Any women?" Hill asked.

Sharon nodded. "He's dated a few. I have their names and their background checks." She pulled the papers out of her back pocket, unfolded them and handed them over. "But none of them work for S.H.I.E.L.D., and he didn't contact any of them more than a few times." She was a little puzzled about that, to be honest. None of the dates had been as disastrous as that one in the nightclub in New York, as far as she could tell, and he had looked like he was enjoying himself while he was with them. But then he just... stopped calling them. Apparently they hadn't met his criteria, whatever they were.

"Okay. Anyone else?" Hill asked.

"That's it," Sharon said.

"What about Rumlow?" Hill asked. "Seems like Steve spent a lot of after-hours time with him and some of the STRIKE guys while they were training together."

Sharon nodded reluctantly. "I know, but-"

Hill watched her closely. "But what?"

"It isn't just about the amount of time he spends with people." Sharon turned to face her fully. "Look, I can't read his mind, I'm just... reading his body language. Rogers does this thing with his shoulders: he squares them up when he's doing the Captain America routine. But when he's with people he trusts — with you, for example — he rounds them. He relaxes. And I saw him interact with Rumlow on the Fourth of July; he never slipped out of Captain America mode. I'm not sure Rogers even realizes he's doing it, but..." She shrugged. "He sizes people up instinctively, and I think he always has; back in his day he chose his Howling Commandos without taking much time for deliberation." She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from explaining that it was Aunt Peggy who had told her about that. "Either he gets really lucky, or he has an intuition worth paying attention to."

"Okay." Hill tore off the sheet of paper she'd been writing on and handed it to Sharon. On it were written four names: Natasha Romanoff, Clint Baron, Brock Rumlow and Cameron Klein.

"I want you to keep a close eye on them," Hill said. "They're all trying to get close to Rogers. Maybe it's innocent, and maybe it isn't. I need you to be sure of the reasons why."

Sharon nodded, although she already knew that the ex-KGB agent on the list was going to get the lion's share of her attention, no matter how blithely her cousin Harrison had insisted that she was okay. The idea that Cameron Klein could have ulterior motives was almost laughable... and then Sharon froze at the thought. Didn't that just mean that if he was up to something, he had a really good act down? Pretending to be socially awkward, always fading into the background, so that no one paid attention to him? His IQ was nearly off the charts. He had a high security clearance, high enough that Sharon herself had not been able to access the name of the project he was currently working on. He was qualified to launch helicarriers, she knew that much. He'd been on the crew of the helicarrier Clint Barton had nearly brought down during the hunt for Loki.

And _that_ thought made Sharon pause again. Barton had always struck her as the trustworthy kind... but was it possible he could have suffered long-term effects from Loki's manipulations? Were Hill and Fury worried that even now he could have some mental command lying dormant in his brain, just waiting for the right moment to be unleashed? He hadn't been given any missions since the Battle of New York. Maybe there was a reason for that beyond the given excuse that he was helping train Rogers.

And as for Rumlow...

Well, he could be a bit of a jerk. Not that that was a federal crime. Men who were at the absolute peak of military skills weren't always known for their sensitivity, her own Uncle Steven being one of the exceptions to that rule. But Sharon didn't know Rumlow all that well. She'd have to rectify that now.

She really couldn't automatically dismiss any of the names on this list, Sharon realized as she folded up the paper and put it in her back pocket. She would watch them all like a hawk, then. Not only were Nick Fury and Maria Hill counting on her take this assignment seriously, but so was Aunt Peggy.

Hill stood up and patted her shoulder. "Good work, Agent 13. Keep it up." She started to walk out of the conference room, and then she paused and turned back.

"What does he do around you, by the way?" Hill asked, tilting her head curiously. "Rogers, I mean. His body language."

"Around _Kate_, you mean?" Sharon instantly corrected. "Same thing he does around Fury. Sometimes he squares up and sometimes he doesn't." Sharon paused. "I guess he doesn't know what to make of either one of us."

Hill nodded thoughtfully and then left the conference room, skirt swishing. Sharon sat there for a long moment alone, head bowed, before she finally stood up, brushing the creases from her slacks as she walked out of the room and headed down the hallway, passing other agents on their way to their own meetings.

_Rogers knows I'm a liar,_ she thought dully. _He senses it._

Not for the first time, Sharon permitted herself a brief regret for the assignment she'd been given. It was a good assignment, an important one, and it was earning her a chance most agents would kill for: to impress the people at the very top of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hierarchy. Even Undersecretary Pierce likely knew who Agent 13 was by now, even if it was only through the anodyne official reports she was writing and not the full reports she was giving directly to Hill and Fury. Good things were bound to follow once it was time to move on; this assignment was going to make her career.

But it meant she would never be able to have a real relationship with Rogers. Not like the agents on the list in her back pocket. As soon as she was released from this assignment, she'd have to stay away from Rogers. If he ever found out Kate the nurse was really a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, he would feel betrayed... and justifiably so.

Footsteps hurried up behind her, but slowed when they caught up to her, and Sharon pulled herself out of her thoughts and turned to see Agent Romanoff walking beside her.

"Agent 13," Romanoff said in a friendly kind of way.

Sharon met her eyes for a long moment. "Romanoff."

"Fury's going to put Rogers back in service now," Romanoff said conversationally. "I guess that means your assignment's coming to an end, isn't it?"

Sharon raised her eyebrows. "Not that I've been told."

"Why not?" Romanoff asked, her expression curious and her tone casual. It was utterly convincing, and Sharon had a strong suspicion that it was exactly that: an utterly convincing act. That hadn't been a question, it had been an accusation.

"He's emotionally stable," Romanoff continued. "That was the reason for surveilling him in the first place, wasn't it? And now it no longer exists. So why does Fury still have you watching him?"

"You know I can't answer that."

"He deserves his privacy," Romanoff pressed. "He's done nothing to warrant this kind of scrutiny."

"That's Fury's decision to make," Sharon pointed out calmly. "Not mine or yours."

Romanoff stopped in the middle of the hallway and locked eyes with her. "Are you telling me you're comfortable with this?"

"If you have concerns about my assignment, you should take them to my supervisor," Sharon said, turning to face her squarely in return.

"What makes you think I haven't?" Romanoff's eyes narrowed. "You still have a camera in his apartment?"

"No," Sharon said definitively, glad she could be honest about that. Probably not the best time to mention that the place was bugged, though. But Fury had been very clear that only Sharon herself would have access to the audio files. As far as anyone else at S.H.I.E.L.D. knew, the bugs didn't exist. "No, it isn't like before. I'm more hands off now."

"Good," Romanoff said. "Because if I thought anyone was getting overzealous in their treatment of Steve Rogers?" She paused, and smiled too-sweetly. "I'd have something to say about it."

Sharon forced herself not to swallow in a suddenly dry throat, and kept her poker face on as she walked away. She swore she could feel Romanoff's eyes boring into her back and sure enough, when she made it into the elevator and turned around, Romanoff was still staring at her.

She hit the button for her floor and breathed out a long sigh of relief the moment the doors slid shut, cutting Romanoff off from her view.

"Should have listened to Mom," Sharon muttered to herself in the silence of the elevator. "Should have gone into real estate."

* * *

"This is dangerous," Jack Rollins said, voice low. "We should just kill Rogers while we still can. Arrange for an 'accident' during a mission. At this point he won't be expecting-"

"Don't be dense, Rollins," Rumlow interrupted. "Why would we kill our best asset? He wants the same thing we want. _World peace_." He laughed humorlessly. "Even he wants to go about it all backwards, trying to give people freedom they don't want and can't handle. No, we're gonna stand back and let Fury put him out in the field. Pierce can keep leading the Council around by the nose like always. They'll point Rogers anywhere and everywhere we want him. Don't worry about that."

"I saw the same reports you did, Rumlow," Conners suddenly put in. She was on the team as a profiler, by the request of Pierce himself. "Rogers has a history of disobeying orders he doesn't like. What if-"

"No, there's no 'what if,'" Rumlow said impatiently. "We use him for as long as he's useful. If he becomes difficult, then we take him ourselves and handle him the same way we handle his dear old buddy. Simple as that."

"You really think we could?" Rollins said skeptically.

"Why not?" Rumlow demanded. "They're practically twins. Same strength, same speed, same everything. Everything we did to our guy can be done to _him_. Trust me."

"Be nice to have _two_ of 'em at our beck and call," Malik said thoughtfully.

"I don't know," Conners said slowly. "You saw 13's reports. Rogers went back to work after a serious psychological trauma within a matter of months. I don't know if he's as breakable as you're assuming."

"I don't know if you've noticed this, Conners, but Agent 13 is not exactly objective about this guy, and I think we all know why," Rumlow said with contempt edging his voice. "She sees what she wants to see when she looks at him. Period."

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**

_Reviews are welcome!_


	27. Chapter 27

_**Author's note:** If you don't remember who Agent 45 is, you may want to refer back to Chapter 7 of this story real quick (or read "The Third Life of Steve Rogers") to refresh your memory._

_Also, if you're waiting for an update to "Third Life," rest assured I've been hard at it! The latest chapter isn't quite polished enough to publish yet._

* * *

**Chapter 27**

It was good to be back to work again.

Time had crept by at the pace of a turtle those first months after Steve had awoken from the ice, but now it seemed to fairly fly as his work became a blur of Quinjet flights and swift landings in foreign countries where he and his hand-picked teams carried out their mission objectives to the best of their ability.

Nat was frequently made available to work alongside him, and sometimes Clint too, although Fury had a tendency to assign Clint lone-wolf missions, given the versatility of his skills and the unshakable trust Fury seemed to have in him. Steve sometimes wondered why Nat didn't get many solo missions like that, given that she was every bit as versatile as Clint, but when Steve brought up the subject, Nat was unconcerned about it.

"Fury trusts me just fine, if that's what you're worried about," she said coolly. "But I asked him to put me on your teams as much as possible."

"Why?" Steve asked.

She laughed at him and didn't bother to answer, and Steve couldn't help but smile knowingly in return. The truth was, it was almost ridiculous how easily the two of them got along. Their backgrounds could not have been more different, and maybe that was part of the reason why. Sometimes Steve felt like Nat had almost become an interpreter for him, helping him understand the way the other S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives thought, teaching him how to bend to the changing times when and where he could.

And in return, Nat was picking up things from Steve at a lightning-fast pace, and not just his tactics. At first she had seemed as puzzled as the rest of them when Steve stubbornly held his ground on some moral point that everyone else seemed to think was a minor concern, but now she could be depended on to side with him. She could even anticipate his resistance to certain practices and lobby to get them changed to something more acceptable before he even had a chance to raise his objections.

Steve had never been afraid to stand alone on moral questions. But he couldn't deny that it was a relief to have someone standing beside him. It was almost as comforting as his trust in Peggy had once been.

He was grateful every day for Nat's friendship. And when the holidays came around and Clint left town to celebrate them with his folks back in Iowa, Nat stayed behind and insisted on doing all the Christmas traditions with Steve, starting by dragging a real live tree into his apartment and draping it with so much tinsel that the branches practically disappeared, and ending with an ambitious baking session despite the fact that both of them were terrible cooks and the sugar cookies ended up half-burnt and not particularly attractive or delicious.

But Steve's last Christmas had been so lonely that he didn't even care about the needles in his carpet and the massive pile of dishes in his kitchen. Nat kept him smiling the whole day with her enthusiasm, and she managed to coax a lot of stories out of him about his childhood Christmases, back when it was just him and his mom in Brooklyn. Then it was his turn to coax her, and she quietly acknowledged that Christmas was not celebrated in the Red Room; her first "real" Christmas was the one she had spent with Clint just a few months after she had joined S.H.I.E.L.D. She told him all about it, and Steve's respect for Clint kicked up a notch if that was even possible. He saw now that Nat was trying to give him the same Christmas Clint had given her.

It worked. Nat spent Christmas Eve on Steve's couch "just in case" Santa decided to leave gifts, which of course he did, and Christmas morning was the explosion of wrapping paper and candy and overflowing stockings that it was meant to be.

They were called up for a mission the next day, and just like that they were back in the swing of work.

Winter changed into spring, and spring changed into summer. Early one June morning, Steve was lacing up his running shoes to go for his usual run around the National Mall when he got a call from Clint.

"Steve? Gonna have to bail on going to the game with you tonight," Clint said over the line.

"Not sure the Nationals can win if you aren't there to cheer for them," Steve said.

"Well, they'll have to man up and do it on their own this time. I'm heading out."

"Where to?" Steve asked.

"Afghanistan."

"Need a hand?"

Clint snorted. "I wish. Fury wants me going solo."

"Okay. Be safe."

"Thanks," Clint said. "You running yet?"

"About to."

"Try not to make all those other poor saps jogging along in slow motion feel bad," Clint said.

"Not making any promises," Steve said briskly. "See you when you get back."

"Yep."

* * *

**June 18, 2014**

Right about the time the blue of the Atlantic Ocean was spread out before him with no land in sight, Clint's ears perked up; there was a strange sound woven in with the ordinary roar of the Quinjet's engines. Some kind of hissing or sparking. He had just leaned over the readouts to make sure there wasn't anything wrong when suddenly he heard a deep voice behind him.

"You know, Hawkeye, you really should check for stowaways before you take off."

Clint whirled around, nearly wrenching a muscle in his neck, to see a man standing behind him with both hands resting on his belt buckle. He was dressed in blue jeans and a bomber jacket and somehow managed to look robust and fit despite the silvering hair at his temples. He had a mildly reproving expression on his face.

"I'm pretty sure I taught you better than that," he added.

"Agent 45," Clint said in some astonishment, and took his hand off the butt of the gun that was strapped out of sight under the instrumentation. He blinked several times. "But I _did_ check it, stem to stern." He glanced around the cargo space of the Quinjet, puzzled. "Where _were_ you?"

"Oh, I think a former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. is allowed to keep at least a few secrets, right?" Agent 45 settled himself comfortably into the co-pilot seat and flashed Clint a smile.

"More than a few," Clint said wryly. "Always thought you'd tell me your name when you retired."

"Well, I would, but then I'd have to kill you," 45 explain blandly. He held out his hand, and Clint shook it gladly, feeling his old trainer's reassuringly firm grip.

"It's been a long time," Clint said.

"Too long," he agreed. He shot Clint a genuine smile. "How's Laura?"

"Gone crazy," Clint said readily. "She keeps telling me she wants another kid."

"_Is_ that crazy?"

"We'll be outnumbered," Clint said as if it were obvious.

Agent 45's smile deepened. "That's not so bad. My wife and I were outnumbered two to one."

"Uh-huh." Clint arched an eyebrow. "And I suppose next you're going to tell me that you never lost control of the little tykes?"

"Just the one. Which is why I firmly believe that any parent who thinks their kids are under their control deserves to have their illusion shattered as quickly as possible." 45 slapped his shoulder good-naturedly. "How are Cooper and Lila?"

"They're good," Clint answered. "What about your family? Enjoying the grandkids?"

"They keep me young," 45 quipped with a wide smile, eyes softening, and it certainly seemed to be true; he must be nearing his seventies now, but he seemed as energetic as Clint remembered him from his training days.

"So," Clint said, leaning back and mimicking 45's casual body language, "you planning to explain why you're hitching a ride with me to Afghanistan? Don't tell me you're itching to get back into the saddle at this stage in the game."

"The thing about this profession is, you never really seem to _leave_ the saddle," 45 said with gentle resignation. "But to answer your question, no, I'm not going to Afghanistan, and neither are you."

"Uh, yeah, actually, I am," Clint said. "There's some kinda mess developing over there. Someone's gotta clean it up, and it's my lucky day."

"You mean the Ten Rings?" Agent 45 said knowingly. "Actually, they've been pretty quiet lately. I kinda fed Fury some information to make him think they were gearing up for something. An ugly little scenario tailor-made for your skills. But the East China Sea is where you and I are headed today."

Clint paused for a long moment. "_What_?" he said blankly.

"I have a mission for you," 45 said patiently. "Off the books. It's important, it's urgent, and I need you specifically to do it, or I wouldn't be here now."

Clint stared for a long moment. "You lied to Nick Fury?"

45 waggled his head a little. "Well, not directly. I work through intermediaries. He doesn't actually know me."

"You _lied_ to _Fury_?" Clint repeated in astonished tones. Agent 45 had always been the morally upright type, to the point of being thought odd by some of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s other trainers, who seemed to think a man like that didn't belong in an intelligence organization where high-stakes missions led many agents to stray into a gray area more often than not. But 45 had inspired Clint to believe that it didn't have to be that way, that the values he had learned as a child still applied out in the real world... and he had never had cause to regret the faith he'd put in the things Agent 45 had taught him.

"I didn't have much of a choice," 45 said matter-of-factly. "Don't misunderstand, Hawkeye. I trust Fury. He's a little rough around the edges — not much like the director I worked under in my day — but his heart's in the right place. The trouble is that he has people watching him right now. The kind of people I would really rather not find out that I'm still in the game. I was lying to them, not Fury."

"What people?" Clint asked, mystified. "What are you talking about? What game are you still in, and why are you diverting me to the East China Sea?"

Agent 45 took a deep breath and let it out as a long sigh. "Hawkeye... I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But there are some pretty ugly things going down within the walls of S.H.I.E.L.D. right now. There are moles embedded within the agency — a pretty sizable number of them, actually — and they're on the verge of unmasking themselves. They intend to use S.H.I.E.L.D. resources to carry out acts of terrorism. A lot of them, and soon."

Clint stared at him in horror. "What? People who are _in_ S.H.I.E.L.D.? Are you sure?"

"The intelligence I've seen is irrefutable. And not just agents. Officers, too."

It took a minute for Clint's mind to accept the monstrosity of what his old mentor was saying. But he believed him implicitly. Agent 45 was nothing if not honest, often brutally so, and it was rumored that he had been on the inside track since his earliest days at the agency, quickly becoming Director Carter's right-hand man. If he said this was happening, then this was happening.

"Where are they attacking?" Clint demanded, his pulse spiking. "When?" The faces of his family suddenly flashed through his mind, and a fear unlike anything he'd ever felt before seized him. If something bad happened anywhere near his home... If any of them got hurt...

He didn't know what he would do. But he knew it wouldn't be good.

"Their targets are all over the globe," Agent 45 said quietly. "They intend to kill millions in a matter of days. And S.H.I.E.L.D. has the firepower to do it. I know you know that."

"Then what are we doing on this Quinjet?" Clint demanded, leaping to his feet and reaching instinctively for his bow. "We have to go back. We have to warn Fury. We have to _stop_ it!"

"No, Hawkeye," 45 said sharply, catching him by the sleeve to still him. "I told you, they're watching him. If Fury gets tipped off too soon, it'll go badly for him. Trust me. He'll find out at the right time. Everything's gonna work out just the way it needs to. I've taken care of everything."

Despite the intensity in his voice, there was a serene confidence in 45's eyes that Clint readily recognized from his first few missions, the heavily supervised kind that the trainees had jokingly called "being babysat." In those days Agent 45 had displayed the same kind of insanely implacable courage Steve Rogers himself had, running into the maelstrom of a firefight without a moment's thought for his own safety, yet somehow everything always seemed to work out in the end. Would that hold true even now, with the best of his days behind him?

"If you want to help, then come with me to the East China Sea," Agent 45 emphasized. "_That's_ where our fight is. _That's_ where you can do the most good."

"Why, what's there?" Clint asked.

"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s helicarrier."

"You mean the one that I-" Clint started, and then involuntarily stiffened as the memories flashed through his brain: Loki pressing the point of the scepter against his chest, his mocking eyes only inches away from his own, and the strangeness of the thoughts that had flooded Clint's mind then, intruding into the most private corners of his brain, making him say things he shouldn't have said, making him think things he had never thought before, making him _do_ things he had never dreamed of doing.

Things like hijacking a helicarrier and sabotaging it. Nearly killing everyone on board, including his future fellow Avengers, and who knew how many more people down on the ground. He'd even attacked Natasha personally, and it was only by the most desperate effort that he had managed to make himself fight just a step below his real abilities, knowing that of all the terrible things he could do while under Loki's control, hurting Natasha must _not_ be one of them, no matter what it cost him to resist...

Agent 45 was looking at him with open concern. "Unfortunately-" he began carefully.

"Let me guess," Clint said grimly. "Those terrorists pretending to be S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives, they're on board."

"Yeah," 45 said soberly. "Quite a few of them. Including the commanding officer."

"Is that old thing even still functional?" Clint said, trying to tamp down a spike of fear. "Nat and I have been hearing rumors that S.H.I.E.L.D. is building a new helicarrier or two. Bigger, nicer, better. They'll probably be scrapping that one soon."

"I know," 45 said. "But it's still crewed and armed, and any helicarrier in the hands of these people is a disaster waiting to happen."

"You planning to sink it?"

"We're hoping to handle things a little more quietly that that," 45 said smoothly. "We need to purge the crew of the traitors and then move it to a safer location. It might not be as nice as the newer ones under construction, but we'd like to store it in mothballs for Fury if we can. Never know when it might come in handy."

Clint stared at him. "You seriously have the resources to hide something that big and keep it secure?"

Agent 45 shrugged casually. "I have friends in high places."

"You realize, of course, that S.H.I.E.L.D. has no doubt tweaked the security systems since I last hacked into it?" Clint said dryly. "Not to mention the fact that I didn't do it single-handedly; I had a whole team of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s old enemies helping me out. You really think you and I can do this alone?"

"We won't be alone," 45 said calmly.

"Why, how many more S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are you planning to kidnap?" Clint joked. "You bringing in Steve Rogers or Natasha Romanoff too?" He couldn't keep hope from tinging his words. As far as he knew, Agent 45 didn't have any connections with either one of them, but you never knew.

But 45 dashed his hopes by shaking his head firmly. "They'll have their own parts to play back in D.C. Fury will need their help. But don't worry, Hawkeye. I have a team assembled. Independents, not S.H.I.E.L.D. People I can trust absolutely."

Clint scoffed. "No one can be trusted _absolutely_."

45 smiled briefly. "These people can. You on board?"

"Always."

Agent 45 nodded, looking satisfied. "Good."

* * *

The instant the Quinjet was sealed off from the salty ocean air and the engines revved up for departure from the _Lemurian Star_, Brock Rumlow was up in Natasha Romanoff's face, his face red with anger.

"What happened, Romanoff?" he demanded, his voice rough from spending the last hour shouting orders to his team over the roar of the ocean. "I needed you to help me protect the crew! Twenty hostages, my team spread out all over the ship, Bactroc on the loose, and Natasha Romanoff's a _no-show_!" His dark eyes bored into her. "Do you realize what could have happened if Bactroc had come upon the hostages? This guy doesn't have any compunction about slaughtering non-combatants, do you get that?"

Nat stared right back into Rumlow's eyes, eyebrows knit together fiercely, not backing away an inch. "You think I don't know that? I ran into some trouble in the engine room."

Rumlow laughed humorlessly. "Right. Little Miss KGB couldn't handle a couple of ham-handed pirates who probably never even heard her coming."

"I only _pretend_ to be invincible, Rumlow," Nat shot back with a scowl. "I got swarmed. It took me time to get out of it." She glanced up at Steve as if looking for support, but he remained silent. What could he say? Nat was standing there lying through her teeth to Rumlow, just as she'd lied to Steve by omission by failing to tell him that Fury had given her some extra mission that no one had seen fit to inform him of. Downloading information onto a memory stick when the lives of 20 people were on the line? Steve pressed his lips together to stop himself from joining Rumlow in his angry rebuke. What good would it do now? By sheer luck they'd gotten the hostages out in one piece. All had ended well despite Nat's duplicity.

Except Steve had the uneasy feeling that maybe things _hadn't_ ended as well as it seemed. The ship was retaken, yes, and the hostages freed. But this mission had felt off from the start. Why was Jasper Sitwell, one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top-ranking officers, posted on a satellite-launching ship that was trespassing in Indian waters? Things like that didn't happen by mistake. There was more than just Nat's extra-curricular activities going on here, and he resented the fact that he didn't know what it was.

When Steve had gone into active duty for S.H.I.E.L.D. after the Battle of New York, he'd made a private vow to himself that he would not allow Nick Fury to point him at a battlefield as he would a gun. That he would educate himself thoroughly on the geopolitics and be sure the work he was doing for S.H.I.E.L.D. was worthwhile... and justified. It hadn't taken him long after waking up from the ice to realize that moral relativism reigned supreme in this time, even among well-meaning people like his superiors at S.H.I.E.L.D., and he was determined not to let himself — and the power Dr. Erskine had entrusted him with — be misused.

But despite his best efforts, his suspicions were growing that somehow he was being used anyway. If there was nothing shady going on, why all the secrecy? Why hadn't he been let in on the loop?

Rumlow threw up his hands with a growl and stalked away toward the cockpit, clearly unsatisfied with Nat's explanation. He'd probably savage her in his mission report. Not that it would matter. Nat had been ordered to do what she had done, and it was almost certainly Fury himself who had given her that order.

Nat leaned close to Steve so that the STRIKE team guys making themselves comfortable in the jump seats behind them wouldn't hear. "Thanks for backing me up," she said with a faint scowl.

"I could say the same thing to you," he murmured back.

A stricken look crossed her face, the same one she'd worn moments after Batroc's explosive had gone off in the control room, and her cool and casual facade had cracked long enough for her to admit that it was her fault that Batroc got away. She knew Steve well enough to know when he was genuinely angry, even though she was rarely the target of it, and it obviously bothered her deeply.

"Look, Steve, I'm _sorry_," she said, with the full force of sincerity in her eyes.

He didn't question her sincerity. But if she didn't want him to be angry with her, maybe she should have thought of that before she decided to lie to him. And so Steve held his tongue, arms folded across his chest. There was no question he'd forgive her. They were friends, and he wouldn't give up on her that easily. But the disappointment was like a crushing weight on his shoulders. He was no longer surprised when people like Nick Fury, or the Council he ultimately answered to, twisted themselves into pretzels trying to justify their morally ambiguous actions. But he had _trusted_ Nat. If she spoiled her apology with rationalizations just like all the rest of them...

"Steve, you and I both know," Nat began in an undertone, "he wouldn't have asked me to do it if there wasn't a good reason-"

He lifted a hand to cut her off. "I can't do this with you right now," he said briefly. "I need to think."

Looking both irritated and hurt, Nat opened her mouth as if to argue, but after a long moment she seemed to think better of it, and went to the other side of the cargo area and found an empty jump seat. She pulled her knees up against her chest, leaned against a bulkhead and tried to get comfortable enough to sleep during the long flight back, pointedly avoiding Steve's gaze.

Steve felt a little guilty for pushing her away like that. It wasn't really Nat's fault, or at least, it was more Fury's fault than hers. It was Fury who deserved his righteous anger. But Nat had chosen to go along with it, and there was no getting around it.

He sat down across from her, turning his body the opposite way and leaning his head back against a large rucksack of supplies that had been left on the seat beside him. He didn't pull out his compass to hold in his hand — there were too many people around — but he could feel its weight in his pocket, reminding him of the whole reason he was here in the first place. Steve hadn't spent much time considering Fury's offer of employment when it came shortly after his recovery from the ice: S.H.I.E.L.D. had belonged to Peggy Carter, and that made it the closest thing to home he had in this strange time.

At its founding, S.H.I.E.L.D. was supposed to be about protecting innocents. But over time it had become clear to him that something had happened to the agency between then and now. Now, just like countless institutions throughout history, it seemed to be just as concerned with maintaining its own power than fulfilling its original mission. It had become mired in politics. Had Peggy noticed it happening before she retired?

Worse, had she become a part of it?

The thought of it made him sick. Peggy had been his guiding light since they moment they'd met. One of the few people he'd known who had the same uncompromising commitment to goodness that he did. But she had lived an entire lifetime without him. Was it possible she had changed over the years? Grown cynical right along with the rest of society? Discarded her principles as a fool's dream, and followed the rest of her agency down into the gutter?

And if she had, did that mean that one day _he_ would, too?

He squeezed his eyes shut, vowing he would never let that happen. But he was no longer certain that it couldn't happen. Already he could feel the cynicism poisoning his thoughts, driving his anger at Nat and Fury ever deeper, like a knife in his heart. What if joining S.H.I.E.L.D. had been a mistake? He had never hesitated to risk bodily harm to do what needed to be done, but what if it was his conscience that was in danger here?

A thread of sadness wove itself into his brooding. Back in Brooklyn, he hadn't fit in. People had been more accepting of him after his experiment, but even in the Army he had never really stopped feeling like an outsider. He had allowed himself to hope that S.H.I.E.L.D. was where he finally belonged, but now he was beginning to doubt that, too. But if he ever decided to leave S.H.I.E.L.D., where else would he go? What else was he fit for?

Long ago, before the war, his head had been filled with thoughts of chasing the good old American dream. Get a job that was better than anything his father had been able to get, and earn enough to buy a home of his own. Have a wife, raise children, and mow the lawn every Saturday like everybody else. He could have lived, and died, happy like that.

He couldn't go back to those dreams now. The thought was absurd. Every day he'd open the paper and see all the terrible things he could have stopped, and the guilt would tear him apart. He had an obligation to use the gift Erskine had given him for the common good. He couldn't think only of himself. Quitting was not an option. He'd just have to find some way through this moral thicket.

Usually Steve had trouble falling asleep on these long flights, but as the Quinjet rocked beneath him, his head relaxed against the rucksack until he fell into a strange half-sleep, slipping in and out of awareness, at times aware of the roar of the engine and the rough fabric against his cheek, and sometimes not. Eventually, he dreamed, and in his dream he was fighting the Red Skull, until suddenly his opponent stopped to offer him a choice: he could be taken back to his own time, but only if he gave up his new body. Without hesitation, Steve accepted the offer, and in the very next moment he was back at Camp Lehigh, and he was small and weak again but he didn't care because he was just so happy to finally be _home_. Where he really belonged.

And in his dream, Peggy was even more beautiful than he remembered her, but when he tried to explain to her what had happened to him and where he had been all this time, she didn't disbelieve him, as he had worried she would... she simply ignored him. She just walked right on past him, never once meeting his eyes, never showing any hint that she had even seen him there. He was too small to attract her notice, and he knew with sickening certainty that he had made the wrong choice, that he didn't belong back in the past any more than he did the future, that now he was a quitter and he wasn't fit for Peggy, no matter how much he wanted her.

But there was no going back. No undoing his choice. He was stuck back in the past forever, in his old body, in a time when Captain America had never happened and was never going to happen. A slow horror crept over him as he realized that the Allies were going to lose the war and Hydra would reign supreme... and all because of his selfish choice.

And then the Quinjet suddenly jolted beneath him in a patch of turbulence and his eyes popped open, the dream dissipating like smoke. Everyone else in the cargo area was sleeping or trying to and, looking at them, Steve felt as alone as it was possible to feel without actually being alone.

It wasn't the first time he'd had that dream. It probably wouldn't be the last, either. Steve sat up straight and forced himself to stay awake until they got back to the Triskelion and the Quinjet settled onto the landing pad at the top of the North tower.

"Hey, Cap. Want me to come in with you when you make the report?" Rumlow asked Steve as they disembarked side by side.

"I'll talk to Fury alone. After Agent Romanoff makes her report," Steve said briefly. He wondered if Rumlow would object, but the STRIKE leader only nodded and followed the rest of his team to the showers. He probably had some idea that Steve wasn't any happier with Nat's performance than he was, and figured Fury would take a complaint more seriously if it came from Captain America. Steve himself wasn't so sure of that, though.

"Should I tell Fury how ticked off you are, or would you like to surprise him?" Nat asked him conversationally as they got into the elevator.

"Tell him whatever you want," Steve said. "It's a free country."

"You know what, Rogers? I really regret teaching you that particular phrase," Nat said. "Somehow Gen X lingo just sounds wrong in the mouth of the Greatest Generation." She gave him a sidelong glance, clearly hoping that she would get a smile and break him out of his current mood, but he couldn't give her what she wanted. Not today.

It was an awkward elevator ride to Fury's office.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

_**Author's note:** I'd love to hear what you think!_


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

"Even after he died, Steve was still changing my life."

Peggy's words echoed in Steve's head over and over again as he walked out of the Smithsonian and into the bright sunlight, head ducked down in the hopes that no one would recognize him with the baseball cap shading his face. He even mouthed the words to himself silently as he walked to where his motorcycle was parked, not caring if the people he passed thought he was crazy: "Even after he died, Steve was still changing my life."

The thought was simultaneously a relief and a torment. So she hadn't forgotten him. She'd been grateful to him for saving the life of her future husband. He was glad of that, too. That was exactly what he'd been called to do, what Captain America had been created for. To save everyone else's lives. Everyone else's families. He hadn't allowed himself to think much of his own life. His own chance at a family. That had seemed right at the time. Why didn't it seem that way now?

At least he knew now that Peggy hadn't succumbed to the cynicism of the times like he had feared. He'd seen enough of her in the reels in the Captain America exhibit to be sure of that. She'd stayed faithful until the end. Firmly holding to her principles, to her determination to be a force for good in the world. And while that fact came as a comfort to Steve, it had also awoken a longing inside him that he had been fiercely suppressing for a long time now.

He wanted to see Peggy.

No more of Nick Fury's justifications. No more of his moral contortions. No more of his secret underground helicarrier bays packed full of weapons of mass destruction that Fury was bizarrely certain would never be misused. Peggy would have been as horrified by that as he had been. Steve was as sure of _that_ as he had ever been of anything in his life, and the need to see her, to know once and for all that he wasn't crazy to think the way he thought, to feel what he felt, was like a drumbeat inside his chest. He reached the spot where his motorcycle was parked, but he didn't make a move to climb onto it. He wasn't going back to the Triskelion today, but he didn't want to go home either. There was only one place he wanted to go. Just one person he wanted to see.

He pulled out his cell phone, ignoring the noise of the cars zipping past and the chatter of the pedestrians on the sidewalk, and scrolled through his contacts until he found the one labeled "Peggy Carter." The only contact in his phone he had never actually called, although there had been days when he had hardly been able to think of anything else.

Maybe it was finally time.

His thumb pressed "Call" before he could stop to think about it too much, without even deciding what he would say when someone answered. There was a time for thinking, and there was a time for acting. This was definitely the latter.

The phone rang only a few times, and then someone answered: "Carter residence."

His heart practically stopped. It was her voice. She was talking to him. It had been so long. So long. And he knew in a flash: He never should have waited this long.

"Peggy?" he blurted out after a breathless pause.

"No, this is Dr. Capecci, her personal physician," the woman's voice said. "May I ask who's calling?"

It took Steve a moment to regain his footing again. That _wasn't_ Peggy's voice? Well, of course it wasn't. The accent was American, not British. How could he have mistaken it? And anyway the voice sounded too young. Peggy wouldn't sound the way he remembered her, not anymore.

"Hello?" the woman said as the silence stretched out.

He forced out his next words, doing his best to sound normal even though he felt anything but that. "This is Steve Rogers. I'm... an old friend of hers."

He heard a quick exhalation on the other end of the line. "Captain Rogers. Yes. I'm so glad you called. She's been hoping you would."

He felt a wild surge of relief. "Can I talk to her?" he said hopefully.

There was a quick pause. "She's sleeping right now. But if you'd like to talk to her, you might as well come over. She'll be awake by the time you get here."

He hesitated, confused. "I'm... not in England."

"Oh, she isn't either," the doctor replied readily. "She's in Philadelphia, visiting family."

Philadelphia? Steve blinked several times in surprise. So close? Only a few hours' drive from D.C. He could actually _go_. He could see her face again, and look into her eyes, and talk to her just like they used to. His heart thumped wildly in his chest. All he wanted to do was say yes, but...

"I- I wouldn't want to interrupt a family-" he started, but the doctor interrupted him before he could finish.

"You won't," she said firmly. "They're out for the day."

* * *

Agent 45 directed Clint Barton to land the Quinjet in Ho Chi Minh City to refuel and pick up their team, but the coordinates he gave didn't lead them to the airport, but to a landing pad atop a downtown skyscraper bearing the words "Hoang Ky Su." A Vietnamese engineering firm, 45 explained briefly as Clint smoothly set down the Quinjet in a vertical landing.

Clint lowered the ramp and the two of them strode down into the bright sunlight. A group of jumpsuited mechanics hurried over and began the engine check and refueling procedures at the direction of a Vietnamese man wearing what appeared to be a very expensive suit. He was surrounded by six people, all of whom were wearing S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms.

"I thought you said-" Clint started in an undertone as the two of them approached the group.

"They aren't S.H.I.E.L.D.," Agent 45 confirmed. "But they'll need to appear that way."

They came to a stop, and the man in the suit grasped Agent 45's hand and pumped it enthusiastically before handing over a briefcase. "Everything's ready to go," he said easily, his English easily understandable despite his accent, and a broad smile spread across his face as his gaze shifted to Clint. "And I see you've landed us the final member of the team."

"Hawkeye, this is Quyen Ngo, CEO of Hoang Ky Su," Agent 45 said. "He was kind enough to lend us his landing pad as well as design some equipment for the mission. Probably because he doesn't know how to say no to his wife... who also happens to be my daughter, Natty."

He winked at one of the women dressed in a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, who winked back with a smile, and as Clint turned to shake her offered hand he was struck by how beautiful she was. Just exactly the type of woman you'd expect to land a rich businessman. He hadn't realized until now that Agent 45 must have married a Vietnamese woman, because his daughter looked as Vietnamese as her husband did.

"Natty will be partnered with you during the mission," Agent 45 continued. "She's experienced in espionage, and she's a force to be reckoned with when it comes to hand-to-hand combat."

"Sounds like you raised her right," Clint said lightly.

"There were times when my mother wasn't quite so sure about that," Natty said with a merry laugh that revealed a faint dimple in one cheek. She didn't exactly look like someone who would dominate in a fight — her frame was willowy, and every motion she made bespoke grace, not power — but Clint knew better than to judge a fighter by stature alone. Anyone who had ever met Natasha Romanoff knew _that_.

"This is my other daughter, Sammy," 45 went on. "She's our designated hacker, and my grandson Roger here will assist her."

Sammy was not as striking as her sister was — she wasn't even wearing makeup, as a matter of fact — and she wore a more serious expression as she shook Clint's hand. Roger, standing next to her, looked very young, almost too young to be part of a mission like this. Maybe still in his teens, although the uniform helped him look older and he was built along the lines of a quarterback. Well, Agent 45 wouldn't be sending some of his own family into the thick of things unless he was sure they could handle it, Clint figured.

"The other three will work to clear the helicarrier of hostiles before we launch it," Agent 45 said. "This is Aliyah, my nephew's wife." He accepted a warm hug of greeting from a tall woman with neatly beaded box braids that cascaded all the way down to her waist. There was a flash of reflected light as she patted 45's back, and Clint saw that she was wearing a metal bar across the fingers of one hand. Brass knuckles? But there were only loops for two fingers, and the metal bar was flat and heavily inscribed with symbols that he couldn't quite make out. Some kind of gaudy jewelry, he supposed. It didn't look very practical for fighting.

"She can take care of herself in a fight," 45 added as Aliyah released him, almost as if reading Clint's mind, "but she also has medical expertise if it becomes necessary."

Clint was startled when Aliyah turned and gave _him_ a close hug, too.

"What?" she asked him lightly as she pulled back, still gripping his shoulders, her white teeth flashing in a broad smile. "_They_ all wanted to do it, too." Her smiling gaze slid over the rest of the team, a few of whom fought to restrain smiles of their own.

Agent 45 cleared his throat loudly, and everyone sobered up as he moved on to the last two members of the team: a sturdily-built man with close-clipped brown hair and a sidearm in a well-worn holster strapped to his belt, standing side by side with a woman sporting a single lock of flame-red hair on her blond head. She was noticeably shorter than the man and wasn't armed at all, yet her body language fairly exuded unshakeable confidence.

"And last but not least, this is my niece, Amanda — I taught her to fight, too, since she was small — and her husband, Rob," Agent 45 said. "He's LAPD, more than a decade on the force."

Clint shot Agent 45 a surprised look. "The _entire team_ is related to you?" he asked.

"I told you," 45 said steadily. "I needed people I could trust."

"Well, I'm not part of your family," Clint pointed out. "What makes you so sure you can trust me?"

"What makes you think you're _not_ part of the family?" 45 asked facetiously.

"Our little brother's name is Clint," Sammy put in, the first time she had spoken. Her voice was soft but somehow carried clearly even in the wind whipping past the top of the skyscraper.

"Oh, you named one of your kids after me?" Clint joked, looking back at Agent 45. "What an honor."

"Yes, and he was born before I ever met you," Agent 45 said in a wry tone, "which makes it a real accomplishment."

* * *

Sharon couldn't quite suppress a yawn as the briefing wrapped up; she'd gotten back from an assignment in Berlin in the wee hours of the morning, and even though she had gone straight home and to bed for a good six hours before heading to the Triskelion, her internal clock was still confused. But it had been quite a while since she'd been able to spend time with Cameron Klein, and she wouldn't have a chance tomorrow; too many meetings of her own scheduled.

And so she'd slipped into one of the briefings that Klein consistently attended and made her way to the seat behind him, tapping him on the shoulder and flashing him a smile when he turned around, although of course they couldn't talk during the briefing. But when the presentation was over, Klein turned around and readily made small talk with her. For the longest time after she had been assigned to watch him, he had struggled to get through a sentence without stammering. But with a lot of patience, persistence and friendliness on her part, Sharon had finally gotten him comfortable enough that he didn't tense up when he saw her coming anymore. He was now even describing her as a friend when he introduced her to other agents, a milestone she had never managed to reach with Brock Rumlow.

Today she kept the conversation going as she followed Klein into the control center where he worked, and he didn't even seem to mind when she hung around for a while chatting. She wished she could get in a visit with Rumlow today, too, but he had gotten back from an international mission earlier in the day and gone home as soon as his report was filed. He was much harder to catch than Klein was, which was unfortunate; the more time Sharon spent with Klein, the more convinced she became that he was exactly what he seemed to be: a highly intelligent but socially awkward, good-hearted technician who liked being in Steve Rogers' company for no reason more complicated than the fact that Rogers was nice to Klein.

Klein was in the middle of a funny story about his little sister when Sharon's phone chimed in her pocket.

It was a very particular chime, not the one she used for text messages, so Sharon quickly excused herself and walked to a quiet corner of the room to check it. And sure enough, it was the tracking device installed on Rogers' motorcycle, signaling to her that he had just left the D.C. area. Hill hadn't alerted Sharon that Rogers was being called up for a mission, which meant he was leaving on personal business.

Sharon frowned; with the kind of hours Rogers worked it was pretty rare for him to leave town spontaneously, and she knew he hadn't requested any vacation time this week. Her eyes flicked up to the corner of her screen and saw that it was only 3 p.m. Normally he would be in the Triskelion attending briefings at this time of day. Curious, she opened the tracking app and looked at his location: Baltimore Washington Parkway, heading northeast. Her eyes traced up the line on the map. Could he be headed to Baltimore? Why? He didn't know anyone special out that way.

She moved the timestamp back to see if he had headed out straight from work, or if he had gone to his apartment first. Neither one, it turned out: He'd left from the Smithsonian. Sharon's brow creased even deeper. He'd left work in the middle of a weekday to go to a museum, and then jumped on his bike and taken a spontaneous drive out of town? It wasn't exactly normal for him. She quickly typed out a message to Hill to let her know. A minute later, Hill sent a reply.

MARIA HILL: Fury isn't surprised. He's probably just blowing off steam.

MARIA HILL: Keep an eye on him, but I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.

Sharon blinked. Blowing off steam? What could have gotten Rogers steamed up enough to take off like that? He was usually so controlled.

She said goodbye to Klein and headed up to her own desk to work, and as promised, she glanced at her phone from time to time throughout the afternoon to see where Rogers ended up. He drove straight through Baltimore and crossed the border into Delaware, and by the time she got off work a few hours later he was in Pennsylvania.

This was turning into quite the cool-down drive.

Sharon drove to her apartment and jogged up the stairs to her apartment, glancing at Rogers' door and then, acting on some instinct she didn't fully understand, she tried the doorknob. It was locked, as always.

Shrugging to herself, she went into her apartment, kicked off her shoes, sat on the couch and checked the tracker again. She half-expected him to be well on his way to New Jersey, but it turned out he had finally stopped in Philadelphia. Or rather, Berwyn, one of those charming little middle-class suburbs outside the city. Sharon looked at the address where his motorcycle was parked, and suddenly went very still.

It was her Uncle Mike's house.

"What?" she blurted out loud, staring down at her phone.

Steve Rogers didn't know Uncle Mike. Uncle Mike didn't know him. And yet there Rogers was, parked in front of his house, plain as day on the map.

Steve Rogers was visiting Peggy Carter's son.

It slowly dawned on Sharon that that hadn't been a long drive to blow off steam after all. Rogers had driven to a specific place for a specific purpose. It was just that Sharon had no idea what it was. She was not used to being caught off guard by her reassuringly predictable charge, and it was a little unnerving to think that he was making contact with her own family, even though he didn't know — he couldn't possibly know — about her connection to them. She was just Kate the nurse who lived next door.

But she needed to understand what was going on. So she tapped into his recent calls to see who he had talked to earlier that day, and was surprised again. Uncle Mike's name was not in his contact list, and the only number Rogers had called that afternoon was...

Peggy Carter.

Steve Rogers had called Peggy Carter in England. And then immediately set off to her son's home in Philadelphia.

Sharon stared at nothing in particular, mind churning. So he'd finally done it. He'd finally called the number on Aunt Peggy's S.H.I.E.L.D. file, the one he had agonized over all the way back in New York City in those first terrible months after he'd been revived from the ice.

But if he was ready to talk to Aunt Peggy, if he was ready to see her at last, why go to Uncle Mike's house? Aunt Peggy was in England, bedridden and too weak to travel overseas. And Sharon didn't see why Rogers would want to visit her son, a perfect stranger to him. It was true that Michael Carter happened to be a former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., who had operated under the name of "Agent 45" to avoid any career complications from being the son of the director. But Steve Rogers wouldn't know anything about all of that. Only the Carter family knew the true identity of "Agent 45."

She could call Aunt Sarah or Uncle Mike to ask, of course. But that seemed unnecessarily intrusive. Rogers was free to visit whoever he wanted, and unlike his friends at S.H.I.E.L.D. who Sharon was assigned to keep an eye on, there was no reason to fear him coming into contact with the Carters. They were above suspicion.

So Sharon put down her phone, pushed her worries aside and started gathering up her clothes to do a load of laundry.

But she couldn't quite stop herself from checking his location every now and again, even so.

* * *

An Asian man who looked to be about Steve's own age answered his knock. He was wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt that was a little too tight, showing off highly toned muscles... and an intricate geometrical pattern inked around one bicep.

"Is... this the Carter residence?" Steve asked him, wondering briefly if he had knocked on the wrong door. "I'm looking for Dr. Capecci."

"Dr. Capecci is in England," the man said readily. "I'm Clint. I'm taking care of Mrs. Carter while she's here."

"Oh." His accent was American; Steve could even detect a touch of the Baltimore inflections. He must be a local nurse, hired to help for the duration of Peggy's visit. He didn't exactly look like a nurse — more like a bartender, actually — but Steve supposed they must come in all shapes and sizes.

"You must be Steve Rogers," the nurse — Clint, that was an easy name to remember — continued. "She told me to expect you."

Automatically Steve held out his hand to shake his, and after a slight hesitation, Clint took it. Then he ended up clasping Steve's hand a little too long, which was the kind of thing that happened to him all the time when people recognized him on the street and converged around him to meet "Captain America." Usually it made Steve uncomfortable, but somehow he didn't mind this time because he was nervous and it was reassuring to feel the warmth of human touch, even it was only from a stranger.

"That your bike out there?" Clint asked conversationally, as he let go of Steve's hand and leaned to look out the front door.

"Well, one of them is."

Clint smiled briefly. "The other's mine. Look at that. Matching set."

Steve was struggling to focus on small talk at a time like this, but he made himself do it for politeness sake. "You have good taste."

Clint chuckled low in his throat, amused eyes sliding back to meet Steve's. "Now _there's_ something I never hear from my family. Most of 'em, anyway." His grin lingered as he stepped back to let Steve into the house. "Come on in."

The moment Steve stepped over the threshold, a powerful frisson swept over him, and he found himself standing stock-still in the entryway, fruitlessly trying to understand what he was feeling, and why. Whatever it was, it had just barreled over his eager nervousness to see Peggy like a tidal wave crashing over a gentle surf on the beach. He could feel every hair on the back of his neck standing straight up.

"You all right?" Clint asked him, brow slightly furrowed. Steve realized the man had started to lead him into the living room before turning back to see that he wasn't following.

"It's a beautiful home," he said quickly, even though he'd barely registered the furniture or the decorations. It wasn't how the home looked. It was how it _felt_. A sensation his old friend Jacques Dernier had once described to him as _deja vu_. But of course he'd never been here before, and he hadn't taken much stock in the strange theories Jacques had had about the causes of deja vu.

"Yeah," Clint agreed readily, looking around with an appreciative eye. "Very homey."

Steve swallowed, pushing past the strange sensation still flooding over him, eager to get on with seeing Peggy. "Is... is she awake now?"

"She's awake," Clint confirmed. "But before you go in, why don't you sit down a minute so I can explain a few things. Can I bring you a drink? That's a long drive to make in the heat."

He nodded, trying to tamp down his nervousness. "Thank you. Water's fine."

"Okay. Have a seat."

Clint brought over a glass of water for each of them, and sat down on the couch across from him.

"Is she well?" Steve asked before he could stop himself. He already had some idea of the answer. Peggy wouldn't need a personal physician in England and a hired nurse in America unless she was having some kind of health issue, and after all, she was in her 90s.

"Today has been a good day for her," Clint said quietly. "Other days... aren't always as good."

He began to explain, clearly and gently, that Peggy was suffering from the effects of Alzheimer's, exactly what that meant, and what Steve could expect when he spoke to her. Then he had Steve wait in the living room for a minute while he went into the bedroom first.

Steve could faintly hear their voices from down the hall, and he could tell Clint was helping Peggy sit up in bed and get situated comfortably. Clint sounded every bit as gentle and solicitous as Steve's own mother had been when she had cared for him through his bouts of scarlet fever and rheumatic fever. Not the kind of bedside manner he would have expected from someone who looked like a bartender. Apparently appearances really were deceiving in this case. Steve tried to focus on that fact, tried to reassure himself that Peggy was getting the best care possible, but his palms were sweating so badly that he kept having to rub them against his pants, and his heart was racing like he'd just run a marathon.

He realized he had no idea how he was supposed to act around Peggy now. The last time he'd seen her, she'd kissed him goodbye. The last time they'd spoken, she'd been in tears, and he'd been trying not to be. Obviously, a lot had changed since then. For both of them. Sixty-six years stood like a gulf between them. She was no longer his girl, and yet he couldn't go back to seeing her the way he first had, as an SSR agent who happened to be overseeing him during training, someone to obey and look up to and maybe be a little intimidated by. He knew her too well for that now.

He guessed that left them as friends. It didn't really feel right to put Peggy on the same level as Nat and Bruce and Thor and all the rest, but it would have to do.

Clint reappeared in the living room again, and gestured silently for Steve to come. Swallowing his nervousness with determination, Steve went past him, down the hallway, and through the open doorway. Clint closed the door behind him, and just like that, Steve was alone with Peggy.

The bedroom was clean and pleasant, with sunlight coming through the open curtains and shining on a bedside table cluttered with journals and prescription bottles and flowered vases, and illuminating the bedcovers, soft and white and pulled up to Peggy's waist. She was sitting propped up by pillows, dressed in an embroidered white nightgown, and her iron-gray hair fell to her shoulders in soft waves. She met Steve's eyes, and then her face lit up in the same way he'd seen sunlight easing over the horizon during his morning runs.

"Hello, Steve," she said, in exactly the same way she'd said it to him a thousand times before.

It was so prosaic, so ordinary, that Steve could instantly feel his shoulders relaxing, and the nervousness he'd been feeling just a minute ago suddenly seemed ridiculous. This wasn't so bad. What had he been worried about? It was just Peggy, after all. It was true that she looked different — she had wrinkles lining her face and her hands looked too thin, the skin just a little too translucent — but she was the same Peggy she had always been.

Even so, underneath the familiar uplifting effect of Peggy's presence, there was an undercurrent of sadness running through. She looked so weak. Confined to the bed. He'd braced himself for that. It was a natural part of life, he reminded himself. One he would face someday, too. Hopefully.

"Hi, Peggy," he said.

She smiled a little deeper, enough for him to see the flash of dimple in her cheek. "I'm so glad you came," she said. All those years she had spent in America as the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't changed her accent; it was as crisp as ever. He was glad. She wouldn't have seemed herself without it. She lifted a welcoming hand toward him. "Sit down. Come and talk to me."

He sat in the chair pulled up by the bedside, and she looked him over for a long moment.

"You've changed a bit," she said at last, although she didn't look disappointed, only thoughtful, as she studied his hair and his clothing. "A man of the 21st century now, aren't you? Must have taken some getting used to."

He tried to smile, but she had instantly cut right through to the heart of his problem. Just like she always did. "I'm trying."

"Only skin deep?" she asked him lightly. "Well, don't try _too_ hard. I wouldn't like you half so much if you were just like everyone else." She tilted her head at him. "I saw you on the news. Saving Germany. Saving New York. Just like old times, isn't that right?"

Steve smiled slightly. "Not exactly. But... close enough, I guess."

"It was good to see you working with Tony Stark," she said. "Howard would have liked that very much, the two of you together. Do you like him?"

"He's a lot like Howard."

"Well, that really says it all, doesn't it?" Peggy's tone was wry, and the memory of their mutual fondness for Howard, mixed with a shared exasperation with his quirks — which they had once quietly confessed to each other in a moment of privacy — was stirred up in his mind. He hadn't thought of that conversation since he'd woken up here. And suddenly it was as if the old Steve Rogers was trying to climb out of his skin and reassert himself, and Steve wasn't completely sure if he liked that or not. The world didn't really want _that_ Steve Rogers. He didn't fit in here. Not even with a friend like Nat, and definitely not with someone like Tony Stark.

"Do you like working for S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Peggy asked him.

He took his time answering her. "I think I've been able to do some good there."

"Oh, dear. Steve Rogers is avoiding the question," Peggy spoke to the air casually, her wrinkled brows arching upward. "That isn't a good sign, is it?"

"I was proud of you," he said quickly, not wanting her to misunderstand. "When I heard that you had founded it. It was something the world really needed. Still needs. It's just..." He trailed off.

Peggy nodded, growing more serious. "I know. Working for an intelligence agency when we aren't at war is different, isn't it? Priorities change. Politics are played. I noticed it, too."

He was relieved she understood. "There are good people there. But..."

"It's hard to know who to trust," she finished readily.

"Yeah."

"Steve, look at me." He did, and Peggy said slowly, with great emphasis, looking directly into his eyes: "If you don't know who you can trust, then find someone you _can_. Wherever you have to look for them. Even if that means looking outside S.H.I.E.L.D."

He absorbed that silently for a long moment.

"I know you're not afraid to stand alone," Peggy said quietly. "But you shouldn't have to." She took a deep breath, her brown eyes fixed on his. "Promise me you won't try to do it alone."

He frowned slightly, not completely following her meaning. "Do what?"

"Anything," she said simply. "You'll make the right choices. I trust you. More than anyone else."

Her faith in him meant more than she could ever know. But he shook his head slightly, eager to get past this topic and move the focus off himself. "I came here to ask about you," he said, pushing forward determinedly. "I don't know much about what you've been doing since... since I left. Other than your work."

"I published my memoirs," Peggy said with a hint of gentle remonstrance. "Didn't you read them?"

"I wanted to hear it from you."

She smiled knowingly. "I raised a family," she said after a beat. "Children. Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren." She glanced at the wall, where a crayon drawing of a tree bright with autumn colors, addressed in scrawled letters "To Gramma," held a place of prominence. "Seems strange to say all that in only a few words. Work took up a good deal of my time when I was younger. But my family... they took up every last bit of my heart and soul."

"That must have been hard. Running S.H.I.E.L.D. and juggling a family at the same time."

Peggy nodded slightly. "Sometimes. But I was blessed. My husband-" She paused for a long moment, eyes abruptly moistening, and then she pressed her lips together as if to still a sudden trembling. Was her husband deceased, then? Had it been recent? His heart went out to her, if that was the case.

"-he had a habit of finding out what I needed to be happy," Peggy finished at last, her voice steady, "and doing whatever it took to make it happen." Her eyes roamed over the bedside table, and Steve followed her gaze to see a framed family photo, black and white, with a young Peggy sitting on a couch beside two smiling children, all three of them dressed in their Sunday finest. Steve caught only the barest impression of the children — a boy with dark, neatly combed hair and a girl with blond hair pulled in two matching braids — before he quickly looked away. He didn't resent Peggy's happiness, and he was glad she had become a wife and a mother, but it was hard not to resent the existence of her husband, as unfair as that was. He didn't want to know anything about the man who had probably taken that photo, in addition to taking Steve's place at Peggy's side.

But he managed to keep his own voice even as he said with real sincerity: "You should be proud of yourself, Peggy."

Her eyes lingered on the family pictures a little longer. "Mmm. I _have_ lived a life," she said with quiet satisfaction. "My only regret is that you didn't get to live yours." He couldn't have put it better himself, and seeing his expression, she looked at him far too knowingly. "What is it?"

"For as long as I can remember, I just wanted to do what was right," Steve said slowly. "I guess I'm not quite sure what that is anymore." He let out a soft breath. "And I thought I could throw myself back in and follow orders, serve..." He shrugged a little. "It's just not the same."

Unexpectedly, Peggy laughed lightly. "You're always so dramatic," she said with a smile, and it had been so long since she had teased him like that that it nudged him out of his grim mood and left him smiling almost against his will. "Look, you saved the world," she continued, pressing a wealth of meaning into each word. "We rather... mucked it up." Her face fell slightly, and he knew for certain then: the rot in S.H.I.E.L.D. _had_ begun before Peggy had left. She'd tried to fix it, too. Tried, and failed.

"_You_ didn't," Steve said loyally. "Knowing that you helped found S.H.I.E.L.D. is half the reason I stay."

"Hey," Peggy said softly. She held out her hand, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to take it in his own. "The world has changed, and none of us can go back," Peggy told him. Her eyes locked intently on his and her grip on his hand tightened, almost as though she were trying to communicate something more than just words.

"All we can do is our best," she said, "and sometimes the best that we can do... is to start over."

She started coughing weakly, and quickly Steve got up and poured her a glass of water. When he turned back, she was looking away from him.

"Peggy," he said to catch her attention, holding out the water glass.

Her coughing abated, Peggy looked up at him and made no move to take it. "Steve?" she whispered.

"Yeah?"

Her eyes widened, lips parting in surprise. "You're _alive_!" she blurted out. Joy and grief warred in her expression. "You... you came, you came back!"

It was like a physical blow, that she had forgotten so much so suddenly, but he didn't let the pain touch his expression. "Yeah, Peggy," he said gently, giving her a soft smile, remembering her nurse's warning beforehand: "Whatever she says, whatever she forgets, don't let her see you upset. She'll be upset that you're upset, even if she doesn't understand why."

Peggy's eyes welled with tears. "It's been so long," she said brokenly, looking at him longingly. "So long..."

A slow tingle of horror spread through his body. How much of her time did Peggy spend not remembering that he had been found alive? After all, for most of her life she had believed him dead. Anytime the Alzheimer's made her forget his recovery from the ice, it would be like him dying all over again. Steve had thought that waking up to find he had lost so much time was the worst thing that could happen to a person. But Peggy had it even worse. She had to relive his death over and over again.

"Well, I couldn't leave my best girl," he reassured her with a smile that he hoped was convincing. "Not when she owes me a dance."

Peggy seemed to think about that for a long moment, blinking until her eyes had cleared up a little, and then she said slowly, with a hint of indignation: "I don't owe you any dances."

It was like a stab in the heart to hear her say it, but he held his tongue. It wasn't her fault she didn't remember; she wasn't herself.

"Steve, don't tell me you've forgotten," Peggy went on, looking both puzzled and disappointed. "Our trip to London? The day we went to the Stork Club?"

"Peggy..." he said slowly, and then pressed his lips together to stop himself from reminding her that they had never made it there.

"You were wearing your uniform," she continued, eyes growing distant. "I wore my red dress that you liked so much. And I was so sick that day. Of course, there's no better reason to be sick. Very fitting for the Stork Club. Remember how we laughed about that?" A flash of mischief lit up her brown eyes. "We didn't stay long. Just long enough to have that dance." She smiled at him slowly, her eyes crinkling up with happiness. "Not the first one or the last one. Right, darling?"

He smiled sadly. "Right."

It was the longest speech Peggy had given yet, and it seemed to exhaust her; she relaxed against the pillows, her eyelids slowly drooping closed. Steve allowed his smile to fade. So even the memory loss wasn't the worst part. Somehow Peggy had created false memories, too.

He hadn't know that was possible, but maybe it was something she had done in self-defense, trying to paper over the painful memories that were all too real. He could only imagine what she must have felt once their last communication over the radio had been cut off. What she must have gone through, trying to hold out hope those months that Howard Stark spent combing the Arctic for him. Well, if she remembered a life with him that she had never actually had, he wouldn't destroy that illusion for the world.

If only it weren't an illusion.

"Did Maggie see to the garden?" Peggy murmured faintly, her eyes still closed. "The roses on the south side... they need trimming."

"Yeah," he reassured her quietly, wondering if Maggie was even a real person. But it didn't really matter one way or the other. Peggy believed she was, and so she was. "Your garden's all taken care of."

A faint smile touched her lips, and then she sighed deeply and sank into a deeper sleep, her head tilting a little to the side with her gray curls resting against the white lace on her nightgown.

A few minutes later, when Steve went back down the hall, he found Peggy's nurse pacing the living room, waiting for him.

"You'll come again, right?" he asked Steve, looking a little anxious. "She talks about you all the time. I think she's been hoping-"

"I'll come again," Steve assured him.

Clint's shoulders relaxed. "You'll always be welcome here," he told Steve, and then paused for a moment before adding with a softening of his gaze: "No matter what."

* * *

As Steve sped his way down Highway 95 on his motorcycle, the wind tearing at his hair as he headed back home to D.C., he allowed Peggy's words to settle back into his mind, where they could percolate.

_"The world has changed, and none of us can go back. All we can do is our best, and sometimes the best that we can do is to start over."_

He wasn't even sure exactly what Peggy meant by that, but he knew it was important.

How could he start over? Did she want him to reform S.H.I.E.L.D. somehow? Start from square one, rebuild it from the bottom up? But if _she_ hadn't been able to fix S.H.I.E.L.D. in her day, how could he do it now? She had always been the diplomatic one. He could pull a team of disparate individuals together when there was a mission to be accomplished, yes, but he wasn't cut out for politics. He wasn't on the inside track at S.H.I.E.L.D., as valuable as he might be to them as an operative. He'd never even met the undersecretary, Alexander Pierce. He had no authority or even influence with the man who called the shots for Nick Fury himself. Just what exactly did Peggy think he could do under the circumstances?

It was a riddle he'd need time to puzzle out. With an effort, he suppressed the instinct that he had to figure out a solution on his own. Peggy had made him promise that he wouldn't do anything alone, and the more he thought about that, the more he could see the wisdom in it. It really would help if he had someone he could use as a sounding board, bring in a fresh perspective, help him see new angles to the problem.

Which brought him to the advice Peggy had given him. So she wanted him to find someone he could trust. Well, ordinarily it would have been Nat, but he was uneasy over what had happened on the Lemurian Star mission. He still didn't know what that memory stick had been all about. Whatever was going on in S.H.I.E.L.D., she might be part of it. Clint Barton would have been a good second choice, but he was in Afghanistan, and anyway he and Nat were so close that Steve couldn't be sure that Clint wouldn't bring her into a discussion like that whether Steve wanted it or not.

Bruce Banner or Tony Stark weren't out of the realm of possibility... except they were both entangled in S.H.I.E.L.D. interests, too. It had been an unpleasant shock to find out that Tony had helped Fury revamp those heavily-armed helicarriers hidden in the depths of the Potomac, with never a word about it to Steve. And now that Bruce and Tony had become good friends, Steve could hardly imagine venting to Bruce about S.H.I.E.L.D. without Tony finding out about it. So that was out.

No, Peggy had probably been right: He needed to find someone completely independent of S.H.I.E.L.D. to advise him. It was too bad Thor, as a true outsider, wasn't within reach... although it occurred to Steve that an Asgardian god might be bored or mystified by the complexities of "Midgardian" politics, anyway.

The scenery flashed by as Steve sped on, and he let his mind roam over the people he knew outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. The list was pretty short. Ever since the Battle of New York he had practically ate, slept and breathed work, and almost everyone he considered a friend was also a co-worker. There was his priest in D.C., Father Andreassen, a good man and a good spiritual advisor. Steve trusted him, but he had no expertise in advising anyone on something like this. There were a few veterans in the nursing home he visited from time to time. A military man might have some idea of what it was like to be led by people who sometimes had more than just the straightforward success of a mission in mind. People who had to answer to politicians. People who didn't always do the right thing, even when lives were on the line. But Steve had sought them out so that he could have someone from his own time to reminisce with, which meant they were elderly and, like Peggy, their minds had a tendency to wander.

Except...

Suddenly Steve remembered: He knew one veteran who _wasn't_ elderly. That man he'd met just a few days ago while running around the National Mall, the one wearing a sweatshirt with the Air National Guard logo.

Sam Wilson. That was the name. They hadn't talked long, but there had been something about him that had instantly put Steve at ease. A good sense of humor, but not as biting as Tony Stark's. A good listener. And perceptive. He'd instantly picked up on Steve's discomfort after the topic of the ice came up, and tactfully backed off. Most people didn't do that.

He'd struck Steve as the trustworthy kind.

And then Steve wondered: that invitation Sam had extended to him as they said goodbye, almost as an afterthought — asking Steve to visit his workplace and make him look good in front of his co-worker — had that really been what it seemed? There had been nothing of the star-struck eagerness Steve was used to seeing from strangers. And he had said it right after they'd been commiserating about the difficulty of transitioning out of military life. Had that actually been an invitation for Steve to come talk to him if he needed it?

Steve pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, glanced at his watch and did a quick calculation. It would be past 8 p.m. by the time he got back to D.C. He had no idea what exactly Sam Wilson did at the V.A., but chances were good he wouldn't be at work by then. Well, maybe it was worth stopping by the front desk anyway to see if he could get his contact information. He could get to know Sam a little better, feel him out. It might take a few weeks, but eventually he would see if it felt right to talk to him about more sensitive things.

His mind made up, he drove straight to the V.A. when he got back to the city just before the sun set. But to his surprise, the girl at the front desk readily told him that Sam Wilson was in the meeting room down the hall, and that his session was supposed to let out in just a few minutes.

"Session?" Steve asked.

"Group therapy for veterans," she explained. "You're welcome to wait."

**TO BE CONTINUED  
**

* * *

_**Author's note:** I'd love to hear what you think: about Agent 45, and Steve's meeting with Peggy, and where you think the story might go next. Please share your thoughts!_


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